A Little Birdie Told Me
by Olivia94
Summary: A new serial killer is on the loose in Santa Barbra and he's singled out everyone's favorite Psychic Detictive. The catch? He tweets his crimes in real time. T for future violence and Shawn whump. Shules.
1. Everyone's A Psychic

**Hello again, good friends! Here I am with another story! Chosen by fellow Psycho-s via vote on my other story "The [Wrongly] Accused". This idea popped into my head one night. I've never seen anything quite like it, so I'm excited!**

**Tell me what you think, please! Drop me a review! Thanks!**

**BTDUBBS, the flashback is in 3****rd**** person, but the rest is in Shawn's POV. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Psych. I do not own Twitter. I do not own James Roday. I do own a goldfish, but that's neither here nor there.**

**OooOooO**

_SANTA BARBARA _

_1987_

"_Come on, Shawn."_

"_Dad! How long do we have to do this? I just wanna watch TV like a normal kid." A young Shawn Spencer whined. _

"_We'll do it until you get it right, kiddo. Just focus. This really isn't that hard." Henry Spencer insisted. "Now why did he do it?"_

"_Which one? The one standing next to Scooby or the one sitting on the ground?" Shawn wondered, pointing at the two different cartoon villains on the screen. _

"_The one sitting on the ground with the mask half-off." Henry specified. _

"_Hmm. I'd say that it's half-on." _

"_Shawn…" Henry warned. _

"_Fine." Shawn sat with his face scrunched up in concentration, analyzing the scene in front of him. "I dunno. He wanted money?" He guessed. _

"_Come on, kid! You can do better than that." The cop urged._

"_You know I'm ten, right?" _

"_You won't always be. One day you'll be a cop yourself and you'll need these skills." Henry insisted. _

"_And how is figuring out the motivation behind the crimes committed on 'Scooby-Doo' supposed to give me these skills?" Shawn questioned doubtfully. _

"_These are just the minor leagues, kid. You've got to start somewhere." Henry explained._

_The father and son sat for another hour watching the cartoon. Shawn continued to try and guess the criminal's motivation, but failed each time._

"_I just don't get it!" An exasperated Shawn cried. "I'm just a kid. I'm not a criminal. How am I supposed to figure out why someone would want to scare tourists from an island? How do I know the emotions behind it if I can't feel them?" _

"_Well, you just said it. That right there is your problem." Henry answered vaguely. _

"_What do you mean?"_

"_You _can _feel the emotions that these guys are feeling." Henry explained. _

"_Aren't you listening, Dad? I can't. I can't relate to them at all!" Shawn said in frustration. _

_Henry smiled at his son. "But you can. Look, emotions are like…colors."_

"_How can—" Shawn interrupted. _

"_Let me finish. Just think about it, okay? What do all colors, no matter what they are, have in common?" Henry questioned his son. _

_Shawn thought for a moment. "Well, they all come from the same base colors…"_

"_Exactly. No matter what color you are looking at, it came from some combination of blue, yellow and red. Maybe it didn't use all three, but at least one."_

"_So, what—" Shawn interrupted again._

"_Let me finish, Shawn. Emotions are the same way. All emotions come from the same base emotions. We're all born with these base emotions. People just have certain emotions they prefer, and they stay away from the others. All you, as a detective, have to do to relate to your perp is figure out the right mix of emotions to match his. "_

_Shawn sat contemplating this for a moment. _

"_So I can find a way to relate to a serial killer?" He wondered. _

"_Yes, you could if you found the right mixture of hate and anger and whatever else drove him to commit the crimes. Once you can relate to your perp you can do anything." Henry assured his son. "Now, back to this. Why did Jimmy dress up as the mutant crocodile?" _

PRESENT DAY

That's sad, isn't it? Seriously. There I was, a young, vibrant little ten-year-old trying to watch some Saturday cartoons in peace. But did I get that? Nope. Good ole' Henry never disappoints to find some lesson in everything.

And on top of that he was dead wrong. Well, he was completely right, but completely wrong at the same time.

Wow. I see how that could be confusing. I'll elaborate.

Emotions _are _like colors. He said that perfectly. If you set your mind to it you can be empathetic to anyone. Plus, half of any case is figuring out the bad guy's motive, ask any cop. Once you've got that, you've got your case in the bag. So he was right with the analogy or whatever that would be, and he's right about it being important.

Now here's where he's wrong: This doesn't apply to everyone. Sure, it works for the average guy like you (hopefully) and me. The psychos are where it gets fuzzy. There are people who are literally born without feeling. Like Norman Bates. Don't blame them, it's not their fault, but they seriously can't feel things like you (hopefully) and me.

Now the question is, how do we figure them out?

We don't.

There are some people who just can't be read. Why? Because there aren't any words on the pages. They kill for no reason. They kill because they can. I hate those people. I hate those cases. True, I've only had one, but still. I hate those cases.

Look, half of my method is analyzing potential suspects. I know it may seem like I'm not doing anything most of the time, but a lot is going on up here during cases. Trust me, you don't want to know what, but there is definitely stuff going on. Having to rely on physical evidence alone is kind of like having my hand cut off. Not my right hand, I mean, I'm still functional, but my left hand at least. Maybe a few fingers. And I suck at it. I'm awful (relatively speaking) at solving cases without being able to analyze the suspect's emotions and motives, as you will learn in due time.

I'll bet you're wondering about this case now, huh? Yeah, I thought so. Well, it all started with the worst invention of all time: Twitter. I mean really. Is it necessary for us to know everything going on with everyone all the time? That's beside the point, though.

So I get this call one day.

"Spencer!" Lassie barked (hehe) through the phone. "Get down here ASAP. There's been another murder."

He hung up. Didn't even wait for a "Yeah, sure home dog"(hehe again) or a "Why yes, my dear Lassiter. I'll be there in a jiff. Pineapple smoothies are on me".

Shaking off the painful dismissal I turned to Gus. "Lassie wants us to get 'down there'. You know what? He didn't even say where 'there' is. For all we know he wants us to go to Brazil or Antarctica or the Jerked Chicken place or—"

"I'm sure he meant the station, Shawn." Gus so rudely interrupted me.

"How do you know that, Gus? Are you the psychic now?" I wondered.

"Nope. And neither are you." Fair. "Is that all he said?"

"Apparently there's been another murder. I'm guessing he thinks that this one is related to other recent murders. Either that or he just enjoys randomly sticking the word 'another' in the middle of his sentences."

Gus just shook his head in the same way he did when I said that I think Star Wars is better than Star Trek (he's a totally trekkie). But really, can you disagree? Star Wars has light sabers. You can't beat that.

We went out to our soon-to-be iconic Psych-mobile and drove down to the station. When we got there the place was in a frenzy.

"We've got a serial killer on our hands," The chief announced as soon as we stepped through the doors. What ever happened to 'hello'? I guess it went out of style around the same time as leg warmers.

"Are you serial?" I thought it was funny…

"This is no time for jokes, Mr. Spencer," The chief did that freaky thing where it's like she's shooting lasers with her eyes.

"Would you mind telling me when that time commences? Until then Gus and I will head out to Del Taco and grab a burrito. Never fear if it's going to be long enough. Gus has the digestive system of a baby squirrel. He eats very slowly." I joked. More daggers.

The chief spun on her heel and headed back to her office, making it clear that the two of us were to follow. Gus elbowed me in the ribs.

"Hey!" I cried. It hurt.

He just shook his head again and followed the chief.

When we stepped into Chief Vick's office, I could tell that whatever was going on was huge. Just the way that she had a mountain of paperwork on her desk told me that. Karen likes to be clean, but sometimes she's just too overwhelmed and things pile up.

I could see a photo from the crime scene peeking out from under a stack of papers. At least I hoped it was from this crime scene. The victim was a young guy, probably twenty-five or so. He had dark brown hair and empty, green eyes that were staring, wide open, at the ground. The man was hanging by his neck from a rope tied to his ceiling fan. Oddly enough, he also had a bullet hole straight through his heart

As I analyzed the photo Lassie and Jules walked in. Show time.

I grabbed my throat with both hands and made a loud, choking sound.

"Shawn?" Jules's voice sounded more curious than worried. I couldn't see Lassie, but I'm sure he was rolling his eyes or making some sort of condescending, Principal Vernon-esque face.

"Jules," I gasped, keeping my voice strained, "He's killing me."

I unfocused my eyes and then jerked my left shoulder backwards, as if being hit by an invisible force. I let my legs go weak and collapsed onto the floor of the office. I kept my eyes wide open, but stayed as still as I possibly could.

There was a fantastic moment of silence.

"What the hell are you doing, Spencer?" Of course Lassie would kill it…

I lifted my head off of the ground and looked at him. "Do you seriously have to ask that question? I mean really? You're not used to this yet?" I sprang up. "Wow, Lassie. That's just sad." He scowled. "I'm sensing that our vic was shot through the heart and then hanged by his neck," I said with my fingers to my temple.

"Wow, that's ama—" Juliet said in awe, but I wasn't finished yet.

"Male, mid-twenties, dark brown hair and eyes the color of a hardy water lily at night," I finished.

"Shawn, hardy water lilies bloom during the day, not the night," Gus corrected me.

"I've heard it both ways." I haven't.

"You're right, Shawn," Jules mused, looking at the case file. "Well, not about the lilies, Gus is right about that, but everything else."

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "Lucky guess."

I smiled. "How long are you going to keep saying that, Lassie? I mean, I've heard of beginner's luck, but I'd hardly call myself a beginner anymore. More like a novice. Do I have novice luck, Lassitarian?"

The look on Lassie's face was priceless. It's so easy to shut him up sometimes.

Unfortunately, Jules didn't even give him a chance at a comeback. "Victim's name is Daniel Baker, twenty-four years old. He was a waiter at Alfredo's."

I felt my mouth begin to water. "Dude, they have the best spinach artichoke dip!"

"You know that's right," Gus agreed. Cue the fist bump.

Juliet completely ignored us and continued on. "He was found in his home this morning by his girlfriend. The single gunshot to the chest killed him, but for some reason the killer hanged him up by his neck anyway."

The chief interjected here, which sort of freaked me out because I'd totally forgotten that she was there. "This is the fourth murder in thirty three days, which means we're finally officially able to classify this as a serial killer."

"You're going to have to remind me of these said 'other cases', chief. I can't remember everything—it's not like I have a photographic memory." Gus elbowed me in the ribs again. It hurt, again. It's not like I said that I _did _have a photographic memory…

"Well, you weren't brought into the other cases. None of us were. The past three murders were committed in Goleta, so the GPD covered them," The chief explained.

"Well they clearly did a bang up job," I said sarcastically. For those of you who don't know, Goleta is a city about thirty minutes away. It's still in the Santa Barbara County, but they have their own police department.

Everyone chose to ignore my comment (they tend to do that a lot) and Lassiter moved forward. "We already have a considerable amount of information. First of all, the killer refers to his or herself,"—we've added in the 'or her' since Yang—"as 'The Executioner'. He or she kills people because they've done wrong at some point in their life. Mr. Baker, for instance, got drunk one night and crashed his car. A little boy died, but Baker got off on some sort of technicality." Lassie said that with a particular kind of contained anger.

"We also know that the Executioner entered through the side door using a bump key at 9:45 last night." Jules pitched in. "Once in he or she snuck up on Baker, who was watching an old rerun of SNL. The killer shot him through the chest. Baker lived for another two minutes before he died. That's when he was hanged."

I know. That was crazy specific, right?

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Jules. That's a lot of detail. Are you the psychic now?" I asked suspiciously.

Jules smiled at me, but it was the chief who answered.

"Actually, Mr. Spencer, the killer is the one who told us all of this."

"Excuse me?" Gus sounded pretty bewildered. I can't blame him.

"The Executioner tweeted his actions in real time."

**OooOooO**

**Tada! End chapter one! I hope you liked it! I'm super excited about this story :D**

**I'm writing two other stories write now, so I probably shouldn't have posted this yet. I couldn't resist. Updates may be a little slow at first, but they'll hopefully speed up once I finish my others.**

**Another thing, for those of you who are familiar with my work, you probably know that I don't plan ahead. What that means is that any input you give me REALLY MATTERS! I take all requests into account when I'm writing, I promise! I want to know what you want to see! Should I keep Shawn the narrator or switch him off with someone else? **

**SOOOO**

**REVIEW! Please! Thank you! :D**


	2. Cop Mode

**Hey, guys! Thanks for the awesome reviews! Y'all are so great! I really appreciate it!**

**Let's keep it up shall we? Thanks!**

**Hope you enjoy! :D**

**OooOooO**

"The Executioner tweeted his actions in real time." The chief's revelation led to an awesomely dramatic moment of silence.

I could feel the excitement for what was sure to be the greatest case EVER creeping up. At the same time, something confused me. Well, a lot of things confused me. "Wait, how do we know that this is the real Executioner? How do we know that he didn't lie about everything? How did we find this, and why haven't we just traced the twitter account?"

I could see the chief trying to register all of my questions. "Well, for starters, Detective Lassiter is the one who found the account—"

"Lassiter? Wow, I was not expecting that one," Gus mused. I agreed.

"Well… yeah, I, uh… someone I know… a friend of mine … he called me about it…" Lassie stammered. Oh, how entertaining watching him squirm was. It is a memory I will hold dear to me until the day I die. Or the day I go all senile.

"Yes, Lassie. And did I tell you about Gus's and my project? We're trying to grow pineapple in an airless room. I know, sounds pretty unlikely, but sometimes the truest things sound like the falsest."

"That doesn't make any sense, Shawn," Gus pointed out. Why does he do these things to me?

"What? It makes perfect sense. I'm employing the use of situational irony," I argued. Big words make people sound like they know what they're talking about, even if they don't. Remember that, children.

"Actually, that would be verbal irony. And by saying that about the 'truest things sounding false' you contradicted your sarcasm. The irony was lost, as well as your point—" I really, really just don't understand why he does it…

"Gentlemen!" Chief Vick snapped us out of, what some would call, our entertaining banter. "Let's focus, shall we?"

"Sorry, Chief. Gus tends to get argumentative when he misses his afternoon nap."

"It's not even noon yet, Shawn," Gus really does just have to correct everything I say, doesn't he?

The chief ignored us once again. "To answer your other question, we can confirm his authenticity because the Executioner tweeted pictures along with statements—"

"Wait, you can post _pictures _on twitter now? Next thing you know we'll be able to talk to someone face to face from hundreds of miles away!" I cried. I really was in shock. Technology just blows my mind sometimes.

"I'm pretty sure you can do that now…" Gus pitched in. I think he was wrong. There's no way you can do that. This isn't _2001:_ _A Space Odyssey, _though I'd be totally cool with being Keir Duella…

"Could you just stop talking for like five seconds? We could already be done with this," Jules scolded us. Someone was in a bad mood…

"Thank you, O'Hara," The chief said. "And yes, Mr. Spencer, you can post pictures on twitter. We're still going to ask you to go down to the scene and see if you can sense what happened, just to be sure. And, as for your last question, we have had techs trying to trace the twitter account that was used for the past few hours. Unfortunately the signal is being scrambled ever few seconds, so they haven't come up with anything."

"Wait, so everyday people can put pictures on the Internet using a cell phone, but the police can't even track a lousy twitter account? This is one messed up world," I sighed dramatically. I think it added to the overall effect of my little rant.

"You said that there were other murders," Gus interjected. Darn him. I wanted to see what they'd say to that. "Would it be possible for us to see the crime scene photos?"

"McNab's getting them." Lassie answered. "He has to drive out to Goleta, though, so he'll meet us at the scene with them." Poor Buzz has to do all of Lassie's dirty work. The man has the patience of an aged Taoist sensei.

With that said Lassie, Jules, Gus and I headed out to our cars and drove to Daniel Baker's apartment. He didn't live far-about ten minutes-but the traffic made it more like twenty-five.

"I hate Sunday drivers," I complained to Gus. Clearly Lassie did too, because he was honking his horn about once every thirty-five seconds.

"It's Thursday, Shawn," Gus rolled his eyes.

"What are you talking about, man? It's totally Sunday!" I cried, shoving my hand in my pocket and digging around, trying to find my phone.

"No, Shawn. It's Thursday. I should know because, unlike _some _people, I have an actual job that requires knowing what day it is. You, on the other hand, base your entire schedule on when there are reruns of _Twin Peaks_."

"Come on, Gus. Don't lie to me. You don't know what day it is for work, you just know because _Grey's Anatomy _is on tonight," I laughed at him. He sent me a death glare. Finally I located my phone and saw the date at the top. "Huh. You're right; it's Thursday. You know what? I'm still on daylight savings time," I justified my mistake.

Gus sighed heavily but didn't correct me. "We're here," He sounded relieved as we pulled up to a shabby apartment space. And I'm allowed to call it shabby; you should see some of the places I've lived over the past fifteen years.

Daniel Baker lived on the fourth floor in a corner apartment. The inside was shabbier then the outside, even if it weren't for the dead body hanging from the ceiling.

As I looked around the apartment I noticed several things. Cue cop-mode. For one, there was no sign of a struggle, except, of course, for the corpse. There wasn't a single chair knocked over or couch cushion out of place. I could smell a faint hint of pine-sol in the air, and there was a lack of blood at the scene. The Executioner had definitely cleaned up after himself. The lock on the door wasn't tampered with, which confirmed his claim of using a bump key. In case you don't know what that is, a bump key is just a normal key where all of the grooves are filed down to the lowest they can go. To pick a lock with a bump key all you have to do is put it in the lock, apply slight pressure, and hit the key on the back with something hard. The grooves on the key pop up and release the pins. Easy as pie.

After a moment I noticed that there was, in fact, another sign of a struggle that could be easily missed: the clock. Danny had a plain old analog clock on his bedside table (seriously, who still uses those?). The clock was broken. Considering the bullet hole through the victim's heart, I'd have to say that there wasn't _much _of a struggle, But Danny might've tried to run away, or the killer might've knocked it over while moving the body. Either way, the clock was frozen at 9:48 PM, confirming the tweet saying that the Executioner broke in at 9:45.

Back to the pine-sol. As I walked around I could smell the piney fresh scent getting stronger. I sniffed around for a bit before finding the place that it was concentrated the most: a large area on the floor near the couch in front of the TV. It was safe to say that that was where Daniel Baker fell, for two reasons. One, the pine-sol being stronger there indicated that the killer scrubbed that area especially hard in order to get the blood out of the conveniently wooden floors. Two, Baker was hanging just a few feet away, between the television and the couch. Danny was a relatively skinny guy, but I doubted a killer would want to have to drag/carry him far.

Okay, end cop mode, enter psychic mode. I'm glad that's over with.

From my place squatting by the piney spot I gasped pain and toppled over into a heap on the ground.

"Shawn!" Juliet cried, seeing me fall. She ran over to me. It was so hard not to smile.

I groaned. "I can feel it, Jules."

"What? What are you talking about, Shawn?" She sounded worried, which both made me happy and a little guilty…

"I can feel his pain. This is the place. He was shot right here," I groaned again.

"How can you tell?" Juliet wondered.

I sighed and sat up, all pretenses forgotten. Did I really have to do this every time? "Really, Jules? Really?" She just shrugged. "He fell right here, you can't see it because the killer cleaned up, but I can feel it in my psychic loins."

I popped onto my feet with the grace and spring of a young jungle cat.

I put my hand to my temple psychic-style. "I'm sensing that everything the Executioner said on twitter was true."

"I believe the word is 'tweeted', Shawn," Gus piped up.

"We've been through this before, man! You know how I feel about that word." I sighed heavily and turned to Jules, "Working with a partner is so difficult sometimes." She didn't say anything, but I could see the repressed smile on her face.

Just then Lassiter came through the door. "I've got the crime-scene photos from the past two murders," He announced, holding the files above his head.

I walked over and snatched the files from his hand. I could hear Jules bringing Lassie up to speed as I analyzed the photos.

Back to cop mode, sorry. I know I'm so much less charming and entertaining during it, but it has to be done.

Immediately several things caught my notice. Both scenes looked nearly identical to the one I was at; both had a young, male vic hanging from a noose with a hole through his heart. Something caught my eye, though. It was almost impossible to see, and it took me a while to figure out what it was. I knew something was off, but I couldn't tell what it was.

And then it hit me. It was one of those awesome, Gregory House-esque epiphanies, too.

The knot. The knot was different. I studied the knots in the pictures and the knot at the scene for a moment. The knot holding up Daniel Baker was a hangman's knot, while the other two men were clearly held up by a Tarbuck knot (What can I say? I was a boy scout).

Now why would a killer change the way he tied his knots? Nope, wrong answer. He wouldn't. Then I noticed the rope. While they were nearly identical in color, I could tell that the past victims were held by nylon rope, and Danny was held by polypropylene. Both inconsistencies weren't much by themselves, but together…

"Guys…" I said, still engrossed in the photos.

Lassie and Jules were discussing some theories and they didn't hear me.

"Guys."

They still didn't hear me.

"Guys!" I shouted, snapping them out of their discussion.

"Not now, Spencer. O'Hara and I are currently doing _actual _police work," Lassie sneered. He can be really annoying some times.

"How strange! I was just doing that too! We're totally on the same page, Lassie. Well, except for the fact that I was doing _good _police work, but that's neither here nor there," I shot back, lessening the sting of my insult with a cheerful tone.

Lassiter huffed then turned back to Juliet to continue theorizing.

"You may want to hear this Lassie," I said in a singsong voice, waving the file over my head. He ignored me. "Well then. I just thought you'd like to know that this murder wasn't committed by the Executioner at all."

That made him shut up.

**OooOooO**

**Ohh! PLOT TWIST! How I love those things. **

**So, I tried to get into Shawn's process in this chapter, sorry if it was boring. If it was, tell me, and I'll avoid doing it in the future. **

**ANOTHER THING! I'm currently beta-ing this awesome story. It's called ****A Dark And Dangerous Halloween**by** CinLee. Check it out! It's really, really good. **

**Please review, guys! So far I've been told to include Shules, whump and some Juliet narration. Anything else? Tell me what you think! **


	3. Under Pressure

**Sorry for the wait, I'm just about wrapping up two other stories. Once those are done this will have my undivided attention **

**Thanks so much for all the reviews! Y'all have been fantastic. Please keep it up! **

**OooOooO**

"You may want to hear this, Lassie," I said in a singsong voice, waving the file over my head. He ignored me. "Well then. I just thought you'd like to know that this murder wasn't committed by the Executioner at all."

That made him shut up.

"What are you talking about, Shawn?" It was Jules that finally spoke up. I like to think that Lassie was just too dumbstruck by my awesomeness to make a sound.

"I'm getting some rather intense vibes that a completely different person committed this crime. A copy cat if you will. Seriously, though, these vibes are like a seven on the Kipner Scale." I explained.

"It's the Richter Scale, Shawn," Gus piped up. Lately I've been thinking that Gus's purpose on Earth is to correct me at the most inopportune times.

"I've heard it—"

"Nope," Gus shook his head. Seriously, he wasn't even letting me do my bit now? I had a feeling that Gus and I needed to have a little talk later.

"Do you have any actual proof that we have a copy cat, or are we supposed to tell a judge that our psychic 'sensed it'?" Yup, Lassie said it. With the little air quotes and everything.

I scoffed. "Do I have proof? Do _I _have proof? Is a clownfish inherently funny?"

"No…" Gus turned to Juliet, "He never really got the idea of what 'common misconception' means…"

I have no idea what he meant. I think he was just jealous of my moment in the spotlight. Typical.

I suddenly gasped loudly and mimed being hanged. I did it all Kevin McNally in POTC style, with the lolling tongue and everything. After a second I snapped out of it.

"The rope," I pointed at the rope that Daniel Baker still hanged from. "The rope is different. The knots are different. Why would the executioner change his knots?"

Lassie and Jules exchanged a meaningful glance. I'm not sure what the _meaning _behind it was, they were being pretty vague, but there definitely was meaning.

"You know, it's kind of creepy that he's still hanging there…" Gus said uncomfortably from somewhere behind me, gesturing at Daniel Baker's dead body. I nodded in agreement.

"Well, the chief threatened to mutilate anyone who touched it before we're through here. There's a lot of pressure for us to solve this case. Some guy can tweet his actions and he still gets away with them? That doesn't look good for us. That's actually why we called you in," Juliet explained.

It made sense. When I really thought about it, I realized just how bad this made us look. Well, made _them _look. I'd just been brought in and I'd already made a breakthrough. I'm the awesome one. What would they do without me?

For all of Jules's explanation, Lassie was analyzing the rope around Daniel Baker's neck. His brow was so furrowed in concentration I could hardly see his eyes.

"He's right," Lassiter finally decided. I have no idea why he even had to check. I'm always right. He turned to a nearby uniformed officer, "Okay, let's get this guy down. Get that noose to the lab stat."

I then turned to Gus and we began discussing how fantastic the word 'stat' is.

"I think it's the whole single syllable thing that does it for me," I was saying.

"You're right. It makes it prompt," Gus agreed.

"Straightforward."

"Concise."

"Sharp."

"Clean."

"Wait, what? Clean? How can a word be clean?" I wondered.

"Clean like clean cut. Not like squeaky clean," He explained.

"Oooooh."

"If you girls are through talking, we have a case to solve," Lassie interrupted our deep, friendship-strengthening conversation. "Let's go take a look at those tweets."

**OooOooO**

**Yes, I know. It's short and lame. It was basically this or wait until at least next weekend for another update, so I really hope y'all are okay with it.**

**Even though it **_**was **_**short and lame, please review! Maybe I'll be able to get out two chapters in the next week! ;)**


	4. Unmasked

**Y'all were such great reviewers I decided to update AGAIN! You're welcome :D**

**Please review guys! Thanks!**

**OooOooO**

In order to look at the Executioner's tweets (don't tell Gus I just said that) Lassie insisted that we all went back to the station. I tried to explain to him that I could check them out on my nifty iPhone, but he's never been one for technology.

"Don't either of you boneheads go touching anything on my desk," He warned us when we got to the station.

"Now why would I want to that? I've already gone through it like, six times," I said, drawing a glare from the detective. It's what I live for.

Lassie plopped into his super-comfy-looking desk chair and scooted himself up to his desk.

"The Executioner tweeted four times over the course of the night," He explained, powering up his monitor, "Once before, two times during, and once after."

"In one such tweet did he happen to mention his name? Maybe his address, social security number…" Gus hit me on the arm. I don't see why, I was asking perfectly valid questions.

We watched as Lassie pulled up twitter on his computer. I noticed at the top of the screen there was the name DetectiveCarltonLassiter. My mouth dropped open.

"Oh. My. God. Lassie, you have a twitter?" I cried in pure, unadulterated delight.

"Wha- no, no of course not," He was extremely flustered as he clicked on a link, taking me away from his profile of sorts.

"Ah, it just must have been _another _Detective Carlton Lassiter that was signed on on this computer," Gus mused. Fist bump. He earned it.

"As you can see," Lassie cleared his throat and changed the subject, "We've got four tweets and three pictures."

I read the posts over his shoulders.

_Hello, Santa Barbra! My name isn't important right now. You can call me The Executioner. Yes, "The" is capitalized. What is important is that…_

The message was cut off.

"What? That can't seriously be it," I said, incredibly confused.

Lassie rolled his eyes. "It's not." He clicked on a little link that said: and another screen was brought up. The webpage had a picture of a cute little squirrel on the top. I'll bet it made Lassie cringe.

The post continued on this page.

_What's important is that I'm about to start on what is sure to be one of the most notorious crime sprees of all time. Stay tuned._

Lassie brought up the next post.

_Just entered the victim's—one Daniel Baker—house using a bump key. Boy I love these things. _

There was a link to a picture, which Lassie clicked on. When the page loaded a photo of Daniel Baker's front door was brought up.

"That is so creepy," Gus mused, "He seriously tweeted while he was going into his victim's house." I nodded in agreement. This whole thing pretty much topped the creeper scale, along with like, Norman Bates and his creepish taxidermy.

Next.

_Mr. Baker is watching an old rerun of SNL. One with Will Ferrell. Haha, more cowbells! So great. Pity I'm about to kill him…_

The picture attached was of Daniel Baker lounging on his couch watching TV. Sure enough, I could make out the SNL Blue Oyster Cult sketch in the background.

"Even creepier…" I whispered. Gus looked seriously disturbed. Even Lassie looked a little shaken.

_And the deed is done. Good night, Santa Barbara, I take my bow. _

Gus looked like he was going to pass out when he saw the picture. There hanged Mr. Daniel Baker, the blood still fresh on his clothes. I thought it was kind of funny how the picture was somehow even more disturbing than the actual thing.

As each of the three pictures was brought up, I quickly scanned the contents for any sort of clue. There was nothing. _Nothing. _

"Can you draw anything from any of these?" Jules wondered, coming up from behind me.

I just shook my head.

She nodded but I felt like she was disappointed. I don't like that feeling.

"Detective Lassiter!" A frantic cry came from across the station. A very frazzled looking officer was making as good an attempt at sprinting through the small spaces as I think is possible.

Lassie sighed and rolled his eyes. "What is it, Donnelly?"

"We've found him. We've found The Executioner."

I could feel the ripple of excitement that the simple sentence caused. "What? How did you manage to do that?" Gus beat me to the question.

"Well it turns out that he was concealing his URL through a complex—"

"Can it, Donnelly. Who is it?" Lassie growled (Hehe, that makes me chuckle _every _time).

"According to his email our killer is one Gavin Slone."

Okay, freeze. I've been speeding through this so much I haven't been able to talk much about what I was doing this whole time. I was thinking. I know that sounds strange, but seriously, I was thinking. In my head I recreated each of the pictures and analyzed them. I dug deep for any sort of insight I might have to offer.

I was pissed that I couldn't draw anything from the pictures. There was no reflection or shadow or anything that could give me even a gender for this killer.

Having zoned out for a while there, the only conclusion that I came to was that Gavin Slone was a flipping awesome name.

"Something confuses me," I spoke up eventually. "Are we referring to this Gavin dude, the copycat, as The Executioner, or is the real one The Executioner? Or are they both The Executioner? And on the chance that one of them is nameless, can I please name them? I was thinking something cool like Hannibal or Felipe."

"They're both The Executioner," Lassiter said curtly. I'm pretty sure that he was just trying to deprive me of the opportunity. Seriously, how would calling them both The Executioner work?

Donnelly, the officer, gave Lassie Gavin's address and we headed out once again.

OooOooO

I'm not sure what I expected to find at the Sloane's address. Maybe a sketchy shack or a sci-fi lair. I definitely didn't expect to find a giant mansion.

The house was super fancy—the kind that's on those stupid house and gardening channels that people with too much free time watch. It was at least three stories, villa style, and had huge doors complete with elegant looking iron embellishments.

"Wow," I couldn't tell you how many of us said it at the same time. This wasn't the place you'd expect a serial killer—or rather a copycat serial killer-to operate out of.

Gus and I, having pulled up before Lassie and Jules, sprinted to the door to question the occupants first. I tripped Gus on the run so that I could use the huge, lion head knockers. Don't deny it; those things are awesome.

"Shawn!"

"Sorry, buddy. A man's got to do what a man's got to do."

"You did not just quote NPH!" Gus shouted at me.

"Yes, Gus. Because Neal Patrick Harris was the first person to ever use the phrase," I said sarcastically before banging on the door.

I only waited for about fifteen seconds for someone to answer.

"Hello?" A middle-aged woman tentatively opened the door. She clearly wasn't expecting visitors. I remember she was wearing a red button up shirt and white pants. She had very kind-looking blue eyes and grayish brown hair.

"Hello, Mrs. Sloane. My name is Shawn Spencer and this is my associate Dwight Benedict." I introduced us, pointing to Gus.

"What? No, Shawn. It's either got to be Dwight Schultz or Dirk Benedict. You just made 'Dwight Benedict' up." Gus pointed out. Why he does this in front of others is beyond me.

"Well, which one has the great hair?"

"That would be Dirk Benedict." I heard the door of Lassie's car slam as he and Jules climbed out.

"He's the one that played Lieutenant Starbuck, too, right?"

"I thought that Starbuck was a woman." Oh, Gus. Naive, pitiful Gus.

"You should be ashamed of yourself."

"Excuse me?" Mrs. Sloane looked confused and disturbed at our conversation.

"Oh, yes, I'm sorry. As I was saying, I'm Shawn Spencer and this is my associate Dwight Schultz." I corrected myself.

"Dwight Schultz? You just want me to be him so that you can be Face." Gus grumbled.

"Have you seen his hair?" Gus shrugged, resigned, just as Lassie and Jules chose to make an appearance.

"What is going on?" Mrs. Sloane sounded alarmed at the swarm of people rushing to her door.

"I'm sorry about these two, Mrs. Sloane," Jules apologized, totally unnecessarily if you ask me.

"I am Detective Lassiter and this is Detective O'Hara. We'd like to ask you a few questions if you don't mind."

Mrs. Sloane looked worried, but opened the door wider and ushered us in.

The entryway was large and airy. There were huge windows and tons of natural lighting. The only framed artwork in the room was a series of family portraits. The one that seemed to be the most recent showed Mrs. And Mr. Sloane and their son. He looked about eighteen or nineteen.

We were lead to a sitting room just off of the entryway. On a coffee table sat a bowl of fruit, one of which was a pineapple. Sometimes it's ridiculous how much that fruit can excite me…

"Is this about Gavin?" She asked, her eyes wide. Both Lassie and Jules seemed a little shocked at the question.

"It is. We'd like to ask him a few questions. Is your husband home?" Juliet somehow manages to sound sweet all of the time, even when talking to potential suspects and their family. That is, unless she's mad. Then she gets scary.

"Oh, uh, no. Charles is out of town on business right now."

All four of us exchanged a glance.

"Your husband's first name is Charles?" Lassiter spoke for all of us. Mrs. Sloane nodded. "Who is Gavin, then?"

"Well, Gavin is my son."

**OooOooO**

**Anyone see that coming? You might've. It's not really that big a deal. Ah well. My plot twists are becoming less and less significant. **

**I hope you guys liked this chappie! I don't think Shawn is as in character in this one as he has been, but hopefully I'll get back into the groove of things. **

**Y'all have been fantastic reviewers so far! Please keep it up! Anything you want to see happen? Thanks! :D**


	5. Do They Not Know Him?

"Well, Gavin is my son," Mrs. Sloane said.

There was another moment of silence. We'd had a lot of those lately…

I exchanged a glance with Gus. Was it really a _kid _that got away with this? Seriously, if you haven't figured it out already, I'll reiterate. This guy told us where he was, what he was doing, and how he was doing it. He got in and out of Daniel Baker's apartment in under ten minutes, and he didn't leave a piece of physical evidence behind. That's impressive.

"Is your son home, then, Mrs. Sloane?" Jules looked just as surprised as I felt.

Mrs. Sloane stayed quiet and looked at the ground. She didn't look like she wanted to cover up for him, she looked… sad.

"You don't know where he is, do you?" I cast my line out there and hoped I hooked something. (Oh, God. I just referenced fishing. My dad would be so proud. Dammit.)

I could tell that Lassie was about to tell me to shut up, but Mrs. Sloane cut him off before he started.

"You must think I'm the worst mother ever," She directed this comment directly at me. I'm not sure why, but it kind of creeped me out.

"Of course not—" She cut off what was sure to be a speech so inspiring a Lifetime movie should be based off of it.

"Gavin is a good kid. He really is. He just got caught up in the wrong crowd," She seemed to plead with me before looking back at the ground. "Yesterday around noon we got into a huge argument. He left the house and I haven't seen him since."

"What was the argument about?" Jules asked in that super soothing voice.

Mrs. Slone laughed that kind of laugh that people use when there's really nothing to laugh about. Know what I mean? "Grades. Gavin is a genius. I'm not saying that because I'm his mother; I'm saying that because his is truly one of the smartest people in the entire world, I'll bet. He just doesn't try in school, though. He's failing five classes, and my guess is it's because of the boys he runs around with."

"Do you think these boys would know where Gavin is?" Lassie wondered. His voice after Jules's is kind of like a punch in the face.

"You know what? They might. I don't know all of their names or any of their addresses, but there are these twins that he seems to be with the most. Oh, what were their names… Of course. Todd and Lucas. Todd and Lucas Damiano."

OooOooO

As soon as we got out of the Sloanes' crazy big house, I turned to Gus.

"A kid! A kid is the one who did all of this? He must be on brain pills or something. Do you prescribe those at Eastern Coast?" I grumbled.

"The name of my place of work is 'Central Coast', Shawn. Central Coast Pharmaceuticals. There is no way for you to not know that by now. And you're just jealous that Gavin Sloane is smarter than you," Gus snickered.

"What? Are you kidding? The idiot couldn't even find a way to hide his URL, or whatever," I pointed out.

"You do realize that you were just saying that he's smart," Darn Gus and his memory.

"I deny that. I believe I mentioned 'brain pills'. Whether said pills made the taker smarter or stupider was left unsaid," I shot back. I always get the best of Little Burton.

I could tell that Gus was about to throw what would probably be a feeble and pathetic retort my way when Jules started talking.

"Okay. So Lassiter is calling the station right now to get the Damianos' address. We'll go straight there once we have it," She told us.

"Wait," I started, confused, "The mother just told us like, four of their favorite hangouts. Why don't we start there?"

Juliet shrugged. "Lassiter thinks it's a better idea to go to the house."

I sighed. One day people are going to realize that Lassie is always wrong. Always.

"Really, Jules?" She nodded. "Well, do what you want. Gus and I are going to go check out the local haunts."

"Uh, no we're not," Gus, always the killjoy, said.

I looked at him. "What have we talked about, Gus? Never challenge my authority in front of our friends!" Gus just rolled his eyes.

"Gus is right, Shawn," Juliet put in. Why does she always side with him? "It's way too dangerous for you to go alone."

I actually laughed out loud. What did she take me for, a wimp? "What do you take me for, a wimp? First of all, I won't be alone. Gus will be with me—" 

"No he won't," Gus interjected. I ignored him. He didn't mean it.

"—second of all, I think that two grown men—"

"One grown man."

"—can take on a couple of teenagers," I finished.

Jules just looked at me in the same way that she did when I ate the last doughnut on Tuesday. "Seriously, Shawn. Don't even think about going alone."

"Again, I plead Gus!" I cried. Juliet can be slow sometimes.

"Again, I plead, I'm not going!" Gus sounded weary. He must have not slept well the night before.

"Gus, don't be a fried apple kabob. Of course you're going."

Gus closed his eyes and clenched his fists. I'll bet he was counting to ten in his head. 

"O'Hara!" Lassie called from his car. "We've got an address. Let's go." He looked at me, "You two stay out of our way!" He 'ordered' us. Yeah right.

Jules looked at me intently for a few more seconds than was comfortable before running after her partner. After they drove away I turned to Gus.

"Can you believe them? Do they seriously think we're not going to check on those hang outs?" I wondered incredulously.

Gus stared at me. "Yes, Shawn, because they're right. We're not going to those clubs or creepy alleys. No way, no chance, end of discussion," He said before hopping into the blueberry.

It's funny how often he says that, and how often he's wrong.

**OooOooO**

**Okay, so this chappie is shorter than I wanted, but it's also three in the morning. Cut me some slack. I'll update soon, scout's honor. **

**Btdubbs, Todd and Lucas will be making their appearance in the next chapter, to those of you that have read 'The Wrongly Accused'.**

**ANOTHER THING. I currently have a poll on my profile. It's about what story I should write next. Please go and vote! I want to write what you want me to write! Thanks!**

**Also, please review! Thanks so much! :D **


	6. The Alien Clones Speak

It took me seven and a half minutes to convince Gus to go. It really wasn't that hard; he's relatively weak minded.

"Five minutes, Shawn. I will give you five minutes at each place, whether we find them there or not," Gus declared from behind the wheel of his car.

I rolled my eyes. "Sure, buddy. Five minutes."

"How are we supposed to know what these guys look like, anyways?" He wondered. He sounded doubtful. Of _me. _The jerk.

"Gus, don't be the five pound watermelon left on the grocery store shelves the day after the fourth of July. We'll just look for the two people who look exactly alike. And if all else fails, I'll shout: 'Todd, Lucas, Wassup?' It's a foolproof plan."

"Yeah, foolproof. That is, unless they have guns," Gus pointed out.

"Well that's rather specific. What if they have knives? Or bombs? Or spears? Or a trebucette? Or—" Gus cut off my extremely logical rant.

"I get it, Shawn. Even though it's called a trebuchet, and I doubt they'll have one…" Oh, Gus. He has no imagination.

"I've heard it both ways. And I'll have you know that _trebuchets _are totally making a comeback. You know, to break down walls of banks and stuff," I informed him, laying particular stress on his strange form of the word. In my opinion, every well-educated American should know about the rising danger of the trebucette.

Gus just sighed heavily, rolled his eyes, and kept driving. Getting that response from him brightens my day.

We came across the right place on our third stop. I'd go into detail about the other two, but I'm ADD and that sounds like it could get really boring really quick. Basically we went, no one was there, we left.

We found them at a club. This seriously sketchy club. Somehow, clubs are sketchier in the day than at night; don't ask me how that makes sense, it just does. Something about the emptiness of it. I don't know. It really doesn't matter anyway.

The club was in a really bad neighborhood, just like every other place we went. It was really big, and connected to this strip mall. It seriously needed a paint job. I guess people really only go there at night, and there's all the neon lights then that cover it up.

"I don't want to do this, Shawn…" Gus was being really whiney the entire walk up to the doors.

"You've said that at every single place we've gone, Gus."

"Well, I've _felt_ it at every place we've gone. These are some seriously freaky hang outs." Is it just me, or did he sound insanely wimpy?

"Buck up, man!" I encouraged him, "We're looking for two teenagers. Chill out."

Gus nodded, swallowed, and straightened his back. Was it not for his wobbly legs and sweaty palms he totally would have looked confident.

Are you ready for the most anti-climactic thing ever? We opened the door and they were just sitting there. Todd and Lucas Damiano, and two other guys. They were just sitting. No guns, no knives, no trebucettes. How lame is that?

Anyways, just like I told Gus I'd be able to, I could pick out Todd and Lucas because they looked exactly alike. We're talking creepy, carbon copy, alien clone alike. They both had shaggy hair that was somewhere between a sandy blonde and a light brown. It was cut relatively short, shorter than mine but longer than Gus's. They were sitting, but I could tell that they were about six feet tall, and they were both slim but muscled. The real difference came in the eyes. They both had light, grayish blue eyes, but they were different. One of them (later I would find out it was Todd) had sharper, harder eyes. The other one (Lucas) had warmer, softer eyes. I could tell just by looking which was the nice twin.

"Hey, fellas!" I greeted in my kind, bubby way. All four guys turned and looked at me. They seemed pretty shocked to have someone who had taken a shower in the past forty-eight hours walk through the door.

The other two men were slightly more intimidating. They were probably twenty-five ish, and were both definitely juicing.

"What do you want?" Mean twin spat.

"My name is Shawn Spencer. This is my associate, Corduroy Maplewood. We are looking for two gentlemen by the names of Todd and Lucas Damiano."

"That's us," Nice twin spoke up, gesturing to his brother and himself.

"Shut up!" Mean twin elbowed nice twin. "Who wants to know?"

Yes, I know. Clearly mean twin isn't too smart. "You have got to pay more attention, man. My name is Shawn—"

"I got that part," Mean twin rudely cut me off, "I mean who do you work for? Are you a cop?"

That made me chuckle. Why do people always think that we're cops? "Oh, no. Not cops. Definitely not cops."

"Who are you then?" Mean twin was getting kind of pushy.

"I am a psychic detective for the Santa Barbra Police Department—"

"So you _are_ cops," Nice twin interjected.

"No, no. Not cops. You need to pay attention, too. I'm a consultant, not a cop."

Both of the teens just stared at me. They clearly didn't grasp the concept.

"You know what? It doesn't matter. We're here to ask you some questions about a friend of yours, Gavin Sloane," I told them and saw their eyes widen.

"Don't know him," Mean twin lied.

"Sure you don't," I said sarcastically. "Look, we talked to Mrs. Sloane and she gave us you're names and this location specifically."

"You keep saying we, but your partner doesn't seem to be on the same page," Nice twin pointed out.

I looked at Gus. Nice twin was right. Little baby Burton was frozen in fear about five feet behind me. I don't know why I associate myself with him. I mean, seriously. We were facing two teens and two wannabe thugs in their twenties. I'd mock the heck out of him later, but I was a little busy at the time.

I turned back to nice twin. "He's deaf. And a mute. Please don't stare, you might provoke him. But stop stalling and tell me about Gavin Sloane."

The two wannabe thugs decided to take their leave at this point. They stood up, one of them whispered something in mean twin's ear, and they left. I wasn't exactly sad to see them go, and I had no reason to talk to them, so I let them leave without saying anything.

"We hardly even talk to Gavin anymore. He got into some intense stuff, the kind of stuff that people like us choose to stay out of, so we stopped hanging," Nice twin said.

"What kind of stuff?" I wondered. You have to admit, they were being pretty vague.

The twins exchanged an uneasy glance. Neither of them said a word. "Come on guys, I really don't want to take you down to the station."

Nice twin sighed. "Look, in this neighborhood, it's impossible to stay completely out of things. You either join the gangs or are targeted by them. My brother and I are the kind of guys who were pulled into bad business unwillingly. We choose to stay out of the serious stuff, because we don't want to be here in the first place, if that makes sense. But Gavin… he's different. He's a spoiled rich kid from a nice, safe, gated community. He got involved with the gangs and stuff because he wanted to, not because he had to. He started getting into drugs and crime—stuff that's way beyond us. When he started showing up at the hangouts drunk or stoned we stopped inviting him."

It made sense. I could tell that even mean twin wasn't that mean. I mean, sure he was snarky and rude, but I could tell just by looking at him that he wasn't cruel. He wasn't a bad guy. Those kids didn't belong in that neighborhood. "When you say 'crimes', what kind of crimes do you mean? Do you think Gavin is capable of murder?"

I never got to hear their answer. At that exact moment, my two very favorite detectives decided to make their grand entrance.

"SBPD! Put your hands in the air!" Lassie was yelling his favorite seven words as he, completely unnecessarily, kicked in the door.

For a moment I thought the twins were going to take off, but, to their credit, they held their ground.

"Spencer? What the hell are you doing here?"

"Always a ray of sunshine Carly-Q. Good to see you too, buddy."

"Um, Shawn? Is Gus okay?" Jules asked me, noticing my wimp of a partner cowering in the corner.

"What a silly question, Jules. Of course not. He's Gus. But he's survived the past thirty years living with that, so I think he'll make it through today," I answered in the most serious voice I could. Lassie and the twins looked confused, Jules looked entertained, and Gus seemed to finally snap out of his cowardice enough to glare at me. One out of five; good enough for me.

"I thought I told you not to come here, Shawn," Jules said in her intimidating voice. If you've never heard it, be thankful. It's seriously scary.

I laughed. Whether it was because I found something funny, or I was freaked by Jules, or it was part of an act is up for you to decide. "Is that what you said? See, we seriously need to work on our verbal communication, Jules. I distinctly remember you telling me TO come here."

Cue scary glare.

Jules didn't get a chance to respond because her partner cut her off.

"We don't have time for this. We need to get these two into custody for questioning ASAP. There's been another tweet," Lassie told me, holding up the twitter he had pulled up on his iPhone. Boy was he getting fancy with the technology.

A single tweet had been added to the page.

'_I'm about to strike again'_

**OooOooO**

**Yay for new chappie! I hope you guys liked it! **

**IMPORTANT! READ THIS!**** So, as some of you know, my other story, The Wrongly Accused, is just about done. Meaning I'm going to be starting another story. PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE go to my profile and vote for what I should write. It's a close race right now, so your vote means a lot! Thanks!**

**.net/u/2197274/Olivia94**

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	7. The Master

"Where is Gavin Sloane?" Lassie was using his best Liam Neeson, Taken, voice when he was interrogating the Damiano clones.

"Dude. We've told you like, seven times. We. Don't. Know." You've got to respect mean twin, aka Todd, for talking to Lassie like that. I won't admit it to him, but I guess I can sort of see how he could be kind of, almost, somewhat intimidating to people under the age of twenty-five who haven't met him.

"This is getting nowhere," Jules groaned from next to me. We were standing behind the glass in the observation room, had been for the past half-hour.

"No, no, Jules, wait. I think he's just about to crack 'em," I said sarcastically. Seriously, an idiot could see that Todd and Lucas didn't know anything. For the life of me I couldn't understand why we were interrogating innocent people while a psycho was out killing someone. My tax dollars at work, I guess.

Haha, okay. That's funny. I don't pay taxes.

"Look, man. We haven't seen Gavin in weeks. I don't know what you want from us," Nice twin, aka Lucas, piped up. He looked about as bored and annoyed with Lassie as his brother.

"Now you listen here, you little dirt bags—"

"Excuse me, Lassie," I pushed that fun little button that lets the people in the interrogation room hear me. Lassie did not look happy to hear my voice. I wonder why…

"What do you want, Spencer?" He growled. I was actually a little surprised that he didn't ignore me completely. I think I'm growing on him.

"I was just wondering what we were going to do about the fact that there is some psycho, hormonal teenager out there somewhere killing people. It seems to me that, as head detective, you should be doing _something_." Lassie looked like he wanted to cut me into little pieces.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Wow. I couldn't believe he was making it _that _easy for me.

"Well, it looks like you are pointlessly interrogating two innocent teenagers and letting a killer kill someone. Seriously, dude, not okay."

At this point, Lassie's face was about the same color as a cherry airhead. Jules grabbed my hand that was on the button and pulled it away.

"What are you doing, Shawn?" She sounded exasperated. I'm sure not with me, probably just the whole situation.

"Come on, Jules. This is ridiculous. They don't know anything," I insisted. I knew I was right. Trust me, just looking at the Damiano twins, a person could tell that the only thing they are guilty of is being freakishly similar. I'm pretty sure it could be considered identity theft in some states.

"Shawn's right. There's got to be something else we can do," Gus spoke up from behind me. I almost jumped in an embarrassingly spastic way. I'd totally forgotten that he was in the room. The guy's way to quiet.

Jules looked at the two of us for a second and then reached over and hit the button thing herself. "Could you come in here for a moment, Lassiter?"

Lassie looked angry about it—he was probably just mad that his partner was siding with me—but he left the interrogation room and came into the viewing room.

"What, O'Hara?"

"They don't know anything, Carlton. We can't expect them to. It seems like Gavin is choosing the victims randomly—I mean, we couldn't find a connection with him and Daniel Baker," Jules pointed out. I realized it was right. Why hadn't I thought of that before…

Oh, well.

"Detective Lassiter! DETECTIVE LASSITER!" Buzz came sprinting into the room, screaming like a madman. It was pretty funny.

"What, McNab?" Once again, Lassie seemed annoyed. Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

Hmmm. Isn't that a weird saying? What's the right side of the bed? My guess would be that the right side is the right side. It would make sense, wouldn't it?

So, it looked like someone woke up on the left side of the bed.

"There's been another tweet."

"Is it the name of the victim?" Gus wondered.

Buzz shook his head violently and handed Lassie a piece of paper. Lassie read the words off of it out loud.

"Hello, world. I just thought I'd tell you that the man who has been addressing you all up until now is not, in fact, the _real _Executioner. He is an imposter. And he will pay. Signed, The Executioner."

"And there was a picture attached," Buzz told us, handing Jules another piece of paper.

I looked at it over her shoulder. It was a picture of Gavin Sloane. He was walking down some vaguely familiar street talking on the phone.

Now, I don't know if you really understand how creepy that is, but think about it. How the hell did the 'real' Executioner figure out that there was an imposter and who he was? And how was he able to find him when we couldn't? Seriously scary stuff.

"Do we have tech running the location of the tweeter?" Lassie asked Buzz. Why he was making up words, I'll never know.

Buzz nodded. "The tech guys say that he's hiding his location extremely well though, and they don't think they'll be able to find him."

"When did this come in?" Jules wondered.

"About fifteen minutes ago."

Lassie said some nasty things under his breath and then took off up the stairs. I'm not one to be a follower—especially not one of Lassie's—but I was interested and went after him along with Jules, Gus and Buzz.

I was kind of surprised that Lassie went straight to his computer. I thought he'd go to the techies or his car or even the chief, but no, he was getting on his twitter.

"Who do we have keeping track of this guy's twitter?" He shouted, his voice carrying across the station to no one in particular.

No one answered. I guess that meant that no one was, which seemed pretty stupid to me. I guess in all the confusion no body thought of it. Amateurs.

Lassie typed madly on his computer and brought up The Executioner's profile. There had been two new posts (I refuse to say it!) since the one Buzz showed us.

"It's time for the master to get to work. Maybe if you're luck I'll let you live." Jules read from over Lassie's shoulder.

I felt an uneasy tingle go up my spine. Not from fear, of course, from uneasiness. This guy was seriously creepy.

"My good name has been restored. I let him live, the world needs more people like him. You won't be so lucky."

There was a picture attached. It showed Gavin Sloane, his brown eyes wide with fear, on the ground with a bullet through his shoulder. I couldn't help but wince in sympathy. Boy, I know too well how badly that hurts.

Looking at the picture I noticed something else. There was a puddle on the ground (it had been raining a lot lately) and there was a building reflected in it. It was a coffee shop about two blocks away from the station. I was about to comment on it when a new post popped up.

"Just thought I'd leave a little present for our hard working men and women in arms. Merry Christmas," Jules sounded uneasy as she read it. Actually, everyone was looking pretty uneasy. Even Lassie. Like I said, this guy was really, really creepy.

There was a picture attached. It was another one of Gavin Sloane, but he had a big bow on his head.

He was also sitting in front of the police station.

**OooOooO**

**Hmm. He managed to drop off a badly injured man at a police station unseen. Weird. **

**Hope you guys liked it! I know that this chappie didn't have as much humor as they normally do, but I did the best I could! **

**Just thought I'd let you know that I posted a new story. It's called "Cheaters Never Win, and Neither Do Idiots". It's Shawn whump and Shules, 'nuff said. I'd really appreciate it if you checked it out!**

**Also, I'll be starting yet another story pretty soon. It's another serial killer story, where the killer kills wrong doers. He/she genuinely believes that the victims deserve it. At each scene he/she leaves a checklist. It says "The thief, the killer, the homewrecker, the liar, etc". Betcha can guess who 'the liar' is! **

**Anyways, I'm trying to figure out if I should write it in first or third person. Thoughts? Tell me in a review! Please? Thanks! :D**


	8. The Student

Okay, so, I'm not the kind of guy that gets freaked out easily. I mean, raccoons and pointy things have been known to put me on edge, but other than that I'm pretty solid. Studly, if you will.

But I'm telling you, dude, this Executioner guy was really starting to freak me out. Just think about it. How the hell did the guy drop off a shot, wanted man at the police station without anyone seeing anything? How is that freaking possible? I know how the story ends and I still don't get it!

"Is that what I think it is?" Gus was the one to break the silence with an incredibly stupid question.

"Oh my God!" I exclaimed, staring at the picture of Gavin Sloane on the screen. "You're so right! I've been trying to find that t-shirt for like, six months! Do you think he'll tell me where he got it?" The kind of sad thing is that I was being sarcastic, but I really meant it. It was an awesome shirt, okay?

Every single person within earshot turned and stared at me. It was awkward. The price a man pays for incorrigible wit, I guess.

I don't know why it took so long, but finally Lassie spoke up, sending the office into a frenzy. "Set up a two mile radius… security cameras… paramedics… find me a witness… get me some damn coffee, McNab!"

I really only heard bits and pieces. I have a tendency to zone out when Lassie talks.

"Come on, Shawn!" Jules, however, I always listen to. "We're going to go to the hospital to meet up with Gavin Sloane."

OooOooO

So, I realize I could probably go into the details of the car ride to the hospital. I mean, I'm sure that some pretty witty and hilarious things were said by me during that time, but, like I said earlier, just the fact that I'm getting through this story with my ADD is pretty incredible.

Let's just say that it involved some laughing on Jules's part, and some cursing on Lassie's. Yeah, that just about wraps it up and puts a nice little bow on it.

Anyways, we got to the hospital fifteen or so minutes after Gavin Sloane. I'm gonna call him Gav from now on, because saying Gavin Sloane so many times, as cool a name as it is, is really starting to wear me out.

So we got there and Gav was still in surgery. The doctor said that it wouldn't be too long because it was just a flesh wound, but it seemed to take FOREVER. You have no idea how boring it is to sit in a waiting room for like, forty five minutes, waiting for someone that you really don't care about to be out of surgery. I occupied the time productively: shooting spitballs at Lassie and making an intense fortuneteller out of materials I found in the cafeteria.

The spitball thing was harder than it sounds. For some reason, Lassie didn't seem to register the tiny little paper balls hitting him square on the ear. I don't know how that's possible. Trust me, they were hitting him (I'm an expert shot) but he just didn't notice them. I rectified the situation by scurrying back to the cafeteria and grabbing spare packets of condiments. Instead of 'spitballs', I made 'ketchup balls' and 'mustard balls'. That got his attention.

"SPENCER!" Lassie practically screamed at me when the first mustard ball hit him squarely on the nose.

Some poor, elderly woman turned her sad eyes on him disbelievingly. Mean ole Lassie didn't even realize that he was disturbing all of the mourning people in the emergency-waiting-room-thingy. How inconsiderate and childish of him.

"What, Lassie? What happened? Are you okay?" I asked him in my innocent, angelic voice.

"If you hit me with another one of those stupid things, I swear to God I will—" He had gotten out of his chair and was advancing on me like a puma.

"Carlton!" Jules snapped. She grabbed the back of his jacked and pulled him back into his chair. God, I love a woman that can take control.

"What, O'Hara?"

Jules gestured to all of the mourning people around us. "Could you please be a little more considerate?"

A look of guilt flashed across Lassie's face.

"Yeah, Lassafrass. Couldn't you be a bit more mature-For the children?" I said in my most innocent voice.

I saw Lassie's hand brush by his gun, and then he closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, and relaxed in his chair. It took all of my will power to hide my smile. Best part of my job right there.

This is when the lovely (lovely as in hot) nurse decided to come out into the waiting room. She didn't announce Gav's name like they do in all the movies, she just walked straight up to us, like she knew exactly who we were. Hmm. Now that I think about it, she probably did. Strange.

"You're here for Gavin Sloane, correct?" Nurse McHottie asked us. She didn't even wait for an answer. "If you follow me I'll take you to his room. He should be awake and fairly coherent at this point."

I know, right? She really got down to business.

She then turned on her heel and lead us a short way down a hall and into a small room. There Gavin Sloane was, sitting up in his hospital bed.

"Please try not to overwhelm him—he's only been awake for a few minutes." With that she left the room. Real charmer.

I thought it was kind of funny how Nurse McHottie was acting like Gav would be tired and out of it. He definitely wasn't. From what I could tell, he was already giving his nurses grief.

"Ice chips! I thought you people were supposed to keep me constantly hydrated! What kind of institution is this? I will have you all fired. And someone take these ridiculous hand cuffs off of me!"

I sighed. His poor mother.

"I'm afraid that's not going to happen, Mr. Sloane," Jules told him, moving closer to his bed.

"What are you talking about? Who the hell are you?" Gav shouted at Jules. He didn't seem particularly scared, just angry. Angry like Mel Gibson angry.

Lassie stepped up and just jerked the proverbial reins out of Jules's hands. "I am Detective Lassiter, SBPD. This is my partner, Detective Juliet O'Hara. You are under arrest for the murder of Daniel Baker," He said very formally, flashing his badge.

"And who are you?" Gav spat, looking straight at me. I thought it was kind of weird that he didn't react to the 'under arrest' part at all.

"My name is Shawn Spencer, pineapple enthusiast. This is my partner—" I turned to point at Gus, but he wasn't there. "Whoa. I could've sworn there was just a Gus there…"

Jules cocked her head to the side in an incredibly adorable fashion. "He never followed us in here. Wait, didn't he fall asleep in the waiting room?"

Whoops. That was my bad. Gus was going to kill me when he realized that I forgot to wake him up and left him alone in the waiting room.

"Oh yeah! He'll live." I shrugged and turned back to Gav. "How are you feeling, Gav?"

He didn't answer. He just looked at me with angry eyes that would make Mrs. Potato head proud. Oddly enough, though, his anger seemed almost…forced… I mean, he sounded and looked perfectly mad; there was just something off about it.

"Mr. Sloane, as soon as you are released you will be sent to the county prison to await trial. In the meantime, we were hoping you would answer a few questions," Jules said sweetly. Creepishly sweetly, if you ask me. Why was she being nice to the kid?

Gav shrugged. "Why should I tell you anything?"

Right there. Did you see it? Of course not, but I did! In his eyes as he said it, he looked resigned. He accepted the fact that he had been caught. He suddenly didn't look angry or sad or scared—nothing. He was emotionless. His anger melted away crazy fast and left a blank slate.

I know that someone famous and dead said that the eyes are the windows to the soul. He was so right. If you're ever trying to read someone, look into their eyes. They'll tell you everything you need to know.

In Gav's case, his eyes were cold and calculating. This was made doubly weird by the fact that he had brown eyes, which are usually warm and soft. He looked like he didn't feel anything, just saw everything. Analyzed everything.

Then I figured out what was off about Gav's anger: it reached his voice and his eyebrows and his face, but it didn't reach his _eyes. _Not really. He looked like he had angry eyes through what I'm sure was years of practice. He scrunched up his nose, pulled in his eyebrows, and narrowed his eyes, but he couldn't change the emotion behind him.

This guy was a psychopath.

I know that a lot of times people use the phrase jokingly or exaggeratingly, but I'm completely serious. This guy was a legit psychopath.

He didn't feel anything. He didn't care about anything. He had just killed a man and gotten caught for it, and he didn't _care._ The concept was unreal and hard to grasp, but one look into his eyes and I knew it was true.

I just threw you off, didn't I? I slipped into cop mode and didn't even warn you! What now? It was a jumbled mess that probably didn't make sense to anyone but me and probably Gus, but still!

"Why did you pretend to be a wanted killer?" Lassie was asking. He wasn't even trying to hide the anger in his voice.

I wonder how much of the conversation I missed because I was off in my own little world. I'm sure Lassie was just having the time of his life reading Gav his Miranda Rights.

"He's my hero," Gav replied, his voice even and careless. "I wanted to be just like him."

Jules tensed her shoulders. I could tell she was a creeped out by this kid as I was.

"What about Daniel Baker? Why'd you kill him?"

Gav shrugged and gave a small smile. "I dunno. He was the first guy on the page in the yellow pages that I flipped to."

If I wasn't sure that Gav was a psycho before, I sure was now. He had killed without any sort of motive—some random guy that he didn't even know.

"Whoa, whoa, wait! I'm sorry, but when were your yellow pages delivered? I think that I was forgotten in this year's rounds. Gus keeps saying that it was because I was evicted so many times they lost track of me, but I don't believe him."

I was ignored. Typical.

"Wait? So the killing was random? It had nothing to do with the fact that Daniel Baker got away with running over a little boy last year?" Jules spoke up. I realized that she was totally right and I'd completely forgotten about that part. Shame.

Gav shrugged again. "Yeah, it was pretty random. I had no idea about that kid."

Lassie and Jules looked at each other uneasily. I think they were coming to the same conclusions about Gav as me.

Lassie had just opened his mouth to ask another question when his phone went off.

Wordlessly he turned his back to Gav and checked the notification. His face paled—Considering it was Lassie that made him almost translucent.

"What is it?" Jules nudged her partner when she got annoyed with waiting.

"The Executioner tweeted again." He held up his phone and showed it to Jules and me.

_You can run but you can't hide. No one is safe. I am about to go on a killing spree of the likes that Santa Barbra has never seen. _

**OooOooO**

**CLIFFE! AGAIN! Haha, sorry about that. Just fair warning; the next chappie will end with one too. Actually, It'll be a much, much worse one 3:)**

**I hope you liked it! I'm not super confident with it. I seriously sat at my computer three nights in a row and couldn't come up with anything, so this is kind of forced. Sorry **** Writer's block sucks. **

**PLEASE REVIEW, GUYS! Reviews are scientifically proven to be the #1 cure to writer's block! And only like, two people told me whether they want my next story in 1****st**** or 3****rd**** person! What do you think! **


	9. Like Father

**SUPER DUPER IMPORTANT!****—****Sometime very soon you will be seeing a new story by me, only it won't be under my name. I'm currently working on a co write with the fantastic Syncop8ed Rhythm. For those on fanfic, the story will be posted under the author ****Psydekicks.**** I'm not exactly sure when it'll come out, but it'll be soon. Keep an eye out! Thanks! :D **

**OooOooO**

_You can run but you can't hide. No one is safe. I am about to go on a killing spree of the likes that Santa Barbra has never seen._

He was telling the truth.

There were seven murders in the seven days following that post. One each day. I know you're probably thinking: 'Hey, this seems like something that Shawn should go into detail about. It's super interesting when he talks, and I'd be oh so upset to miss anything he could have to say'. While I wouldn't disagree with any of that, there really isn't anything for me to tell you. All of the murders were the same. Exactly the same.

That's saying a lot coming from me. Look, I don't want to brag, but I see a lot of things that most people don't. I see _everything. _But this guy, this 'Executioner', he's good. Really, really good. Somehow he managed to sneak into the homes of what, nine people? Kill them and hang them, all the while leaving behind no physical evidence at all nor witnesses. That's just…crazy.

All the murders were the same: guy home alone, killer breaks in, shoots him, hangs him, and then leaves. Oh, and he was tweeting the whole time, too.

If you could see me, you'd know that I'm running my hand through my fabulous hair in frustration.

I should have nailed this guy. I should have been able to. But I couldn't. He was too good.

Let me explain. Think back really hard to earlier when I was talking about how terrible (relatively) I am at investigating with just physical details, aka the crime scene, body, etc. Like, ninety percent of what I do involves pulling an assumption out of my head based on a profile of the killer. I have to look at connections and relationships to do that—which, by the way, is hard to do when you've got seven bodies stacked up at the morgue. Not to mention the fact that none of the victims were related in anyway. I mean, two of them went to the same launderer, five went to the same grocery store, and three went to the same dentist, but there wasn't a single person place or thing (save for maybe a general need for water and oxygen) that these men had in common. The ages ranged from nineteen to forty-seven, some were Christian, a couple were Jews, both Republicans and Democrats, high income and low income, some were single, some were married—the only thing they had in common was the fact that they had nothing in common.

Well, that and the fact that they're all guys, but that's not saying a lot. If they were all guys with similar ethnicities, ages, careers, affiliations or physical traits, maybe. I don't know if you know this, but sometimes serial killers target people with specific traits. For instance, if you have a guy that was abused by his dad and his dad had brown hair and blue eyes, he might target victims with brown hair and blue eyes. Just take Hitchcock; do you really think that it's a coincidence that a young blonde woman seems to meet her demise in like, all of his movies? Talk about mommy issues.

Yep. I'm not just a pretty face.

Whew, now that we're done with my little rant, let's return to the story, shall we? Trust me, it's just now getting interesting.

"You lied to me," I accused my dad as soon as he opened his door. Yeah, I was _that _desperate.

I pushed my way past him and into his creepy…nest…"Well come on in, then." He tried to sound innocent. Don't let him fool you. "And what did I lie to you about?"

"Don't act like you don't know."

Henry raised his eyebrows. "I'm no actor, kid."

I sighed and threw my hands in the air in frustration. How could he not remember? "Come on, Dad! 1987. Scooby-Doo marathon from hell."

My dad shrugged and showed no signs of recognition. "What, did I tell you that there was actually a crime fighting poodle that travelled around in a hippie van fighting crime?"

"Scooby-Doo is a great dane, Dad."

He shrugged again. "I've heard it both ways."

There are so many things wrong with hearing those words come out of his mouth.

"Oh my god. What's going on here? What universe am I in? Where's the DeLorean? Did you step on a butterfly, Eckels?"

Clearly not understanding my genius references, Henry's brow furrowed in confusion. "What?"

I sighed heavily. This man could not be my father. "Never mind."

"So…why are you here?" He asked me, glancing over his shoulder towards the stairs uneasily.

"You lied to me!"

"I got that part, kid. You want to tell me what about?"

Something was off. He was talking quickly and rubbing the butts of his palms with his fingers nervously. His eyes kept flicking to the left, but he didn't turn around again.

And two plus two equals?

"Oh my God! Is there someone in here?" I cried in disbelief, pointing to the stairs.

"Shh!" Henry grabbed my shoulder and led me into the kitchen. I don't like being led. "I may have a…date…here for dinner."

On the kitchen counter there were a few trays of those ridiculously tiny appetizer things, including, of course, my father's famous cheese cubes.

"Wait, a date as in a woman?" 

"No, Shawn. A porcupine." At least I can have a tiny bit of respect for his sarcasm. "Look, Valerie is using the bathroom upstairs right now, so can you make this quick?"

I would've been insulted, but I really didn't want to see this 'Valerie' anyways.

"Okay… yeah, sure. Where was I? Oh, yeah, you lied to me!"

"Shawn, if you say that one more time I am going to fill the tank of that death trap of yours with vegetable oil. What the hell is it that I lied to you about?"

My motorcycle in eminent danger, I just decided to cut to the chase. "You told me that, if I wanted, I could relate to anyone. ANYONE." Henry didn't quite seem to remember saying that. "Remember, your whole 'emotions are like colors' speech?"

At that, Henry's eyes lit up with recognition. He tends to remember things that he says and does more than others. "Ah. And how was that lying?"

"Because it's not true! I've got a guy who's killed nine people, all for no reason whatsoever. How do you relate to that? No motive, no connections, nothing. He leaves no evidence behind or-" Henry began nodding his head and a small smile crossed his face. "What, is this funny to you?"

"Not really. I'm just thinking about how much you're like me. Lassiter was right, kind of."

Why not just slap me in the face? "Take it back."

Henry rolled his eyes. "I used to do the exact same thing as you're doing right now when I was on the force—well, except for the fact that I had a badge and a gun. Not to mention a good reputation, a squeaky clean record, a famous gut, and—"

"I get it. You're the personification of the positive side of law enforcement. Is there a point, or would you like me to start drawing up your campaign poster? Even though I think we should leave out the part about people knowing about your stomach issues."

"What I'm saying is that I used to take it personally, too. When I couldn't solve a case, it got to me. It made me second-guess myself. Look, kid, if you wanna catch this guy, there is no room to be self-conscious. Even though your methods are inappropriate and juvenile, they work for you. Stick to them."

I looked at my father in shock. "Wow, dad. You just almost, sort of, kinda, halfway complimented me. I knew you liked me." I grinned at him. He just rolled his eyes, but I knew that that was the Henry Spencer equivalent of him smiling back.

The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs interrupted our cute little father son moment.

I turned towards the stairs in horror. "Catch you later, pops. Thanks!" I sprinted out his back door and to my bike.

OooOooO

When I got back to the Psych office later that night I went straight to my computer. As much as I hated it, Henry was totally right. If I wanted to catch this guy, I had to do something spontaneous. Crazy. Stupid.

So I made my own twitter account.

Meet Psychic_Sleuth94, aka me. Maybe it wasn't the _greatest_ idea ever, but I needed to do _something._ I was starting to go crazy from the lack of leads. I was finally being pro-active. True, in an incredibly stupid way, but that's neither here nor there.

I posted on The Executioner's profile thing. If I was right, this guy liked a challenge, and he'd welcome mine.

_Hello. My name is Shawn Spencer. You killed my father. Prepare to die. _

What? It was late and I couldn't think of anything else…

At the time I wasn't completely sure how this whole 'twitter' thing worked. I kind of just hit the biggest buttons on each page and hoped it led me right. I'm not going to lie; some Yahoo Answers might have come into play.

_Ah, Mr. Spencer. I was wondering when you'd do something like this. It took you longer than expected. _

I wasn't really even expecting a response, much less for him to answer within two minutes of my post.

_Well, there was a _Chips_ marathon on today. Couldn't miss it. Hope you don't mind. _

I responded, a little creeped out by the guy. How'd he know my name? Wait… oh, yeah. I gave it to him. That probably wasn't the best idea.

_Not at all. How may I help you?_

_Well, ideally, you could turn yourself in. If that's asking too much, it would be nice if you gave me your name, address, social security number, or cell number._

I could imagine The Executioner laughing darkly.

_I don't think I can do that, Mr. Spencer. Don't worry, though. You'll know who I am soon enough. _

A tingle ran up my spine.

_And why's that? _

_Well, I'll be seeing you soon. _

Yep. It could get creepier.

_Oh, really? And when will that be? I'm sort of busy this week, so I'll have to pencil you in. _

_Very soon. _

I gulped and shifted in my seat behind my desk nervously. That didn't sound good.

_How soon? _

_That depends._

_Depends on what?_

_How fast it takes for you to turn around. _

I spun around in my seat and was able to see a brief flash of the butt of a gun before it connected with my skull.

**OooOooO**

**Toldya it'd be a killer cliffe! Sorry about that. **

**Please review, guys! It means a lot. **

**Btdubbs, as I am posting this, fanfic has 68 reviews, and psychfic has 32. Psychfic! Y'all need to step it up! **


	10. Only Slightly Paraphrased

Okay, where were we? Let's see… Oh, that's right. I'd just gotten to the part where I was brutally attacked and kidnapped by a psychopathic serial killer. So silly of me, how could I forget?

I'm sure you're all very worried and want to know what happened to me, but, for the sake of posterity, I think I'll explore the other side of the spectrum for a bit. Does that make sense?

Don't answer that.

Anyways, even though I wasn't exactly there while what I'm about to tell you happened, Gus recounted everything to me in great detail. So this is a complete, one hundred percent accurate, slightly paraphrased version of what he told me.

I know it's hard to believe, but no one noticed that I was missing until the next morning. In all fairness, it was, like, eleven at night when I was savagely attacked and kidnapped. Gus goes to bed at seven thirty, Jules and Lassie were staking out the Sloanes, I think, and my dad… well, he was probably soaking away in one of his infamous 'man baths' with the candles and floral-scented bubbles. All in all, I'm not really that surprised that they didn't know right away. They sure would feel bad, though…

As if we need more surprises, Lassie was the one who found out that I was gone. Lassie. As in Carlton "Grumpy-Face" Lassiter, hater of all things mystical and glorious. Apparently he "saw it on Twitter". What I don't get—maybe you can explain this to me—is why no one was assigned to just sit and watch out for any more of The Executioner's tweets. If you ask me, it seems like that would have been one of the easiest and most essential ways to make progress on the case—not to mention the fact that it might not have taken them about seventeen years to find me. But hey, they didn't ask me.

Okay, moving on.

So that morning Lassie-Face logged on his twitter and checked up on our pal. He was greeted with a conversation that made his heart stop and blood run cold.

_Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls: The game has changed, the stakes are raised. Anyone up for a marvelous game of 'find the Psychic'? _

Attached was a photo of yours truly. I haven't seen it, but I'm sure I was out cold and restrained in some way. If anything's for certain, I'll bet my hair looked fantastic.

"Damn it!" Lassie cried in anguish when he saw my photo pop up on the screen. His soul was filled with hatred and rage. "Whatever will we do? The best investigator in all of Santa Barbara—nay, the world—has been taken from us! We have to find him!"

Lassie whipped out his cell phone and called Jules.

"O'Hara, Spencer's been kidnapped," He reported to her in terror, though keeping his usual cold, devil-may-care tone of voice. Oh, Lassie, always staying strong for the team.

"What? No! It can't be!" Jules screamed before breaking down crying.

"Pull yourself together, woman! Without the excellent insight that Shawn has to offer, we'll be struggling already. We have to move fast if we want to save him!"

"You're right, Carlton. It's oh-so terribly hard, but I'll do my best."

My two favorite detectives hung up and moseyed on over to my humble abode.

Well, I guess 'moseyed' isn't the best word to describe it. Yes, yes, I know; 'Moseyed' is always a good word to use, but, in this case, I think that something along the lines of 'made a desperate dash' or 'ran like the devil himself was after them' would be more accurate.

So, my two favorite detectives hung up and raced desperately to the Psych office. When the got there (by the way, they pulled up at the _exact same time. _It's crazy how they do that) they were met by a horrifying sight that chilled their blood and likely broke their hearts.

As they entered the office they saw… well, they saw… there was this little… and just the way the desk was… there may have been some… and…

…

You know what? I'm really not sure what they saw. Considering that the Executioner snuck up on me with his crazy, ninja-like stealth, there wasn't much of a struggle. I mean, as a highly trained, unofficial officer of the law, I probably managed to break a bone of his or give him a black eye even while I was in a state of unconsciousness, but it doesn't seem like there would be obvious signs of our little skirmish.

So I really don't know what they saw in the office that freaked them out, slash progressed the case in any way, shape, or form. Maybe I should have paid more attention to Gus when he told me all of this stuff…

…

Well isn't this a dilemma? I have to admit; not actually knowing what happened makes storytelling a bit of a challenge. So I have three choices:

(A) I can let Jules or Lassie, preferably Jules, (for obvious reasons) take the proverbial reins for a while.

(B) I can make everything up to fit my fancy, while using my trademark, colorful narration and wit.

(C) ... Okay, so maybe I only have two choices. But, come on, do I really need three?

So I'm going to be completely honest with you. I'm going to choose choice A, because I'm really kind of bored and I'd kill for a pineapple smoothie right now. Oh, don't be like that. The smoothie place is just down the street. I'll be quick.

Before I go, though, I'll bet you want me to give you a hint as to what was happening with me, huh?

Well, here it is. Are you ready?

Vultures.

Yep, that's it. That's my little clue; my gift to you. It'll have to tide you over until my desperate need for liquefied deliciousness is satisfied. I'll even give you another hint.

Hint number one doesn't mean what you think it does. It's an actual clue that I may or may not have had to use Wikipedia for.

Have fun!

**OooOooO**

**What do you think? I'm really nervous about this one. I've never really done anything like it, and I'm not sure about it. **

**Also, I know that I took a ridiculous amount of time to update—especially considering how short this chappie is. I AM SO SORRY. I honestly wrote as fast as I could. It's just musical season at my high school, meaning my grades have dropped, my social life has taken a major hit, and my stories have gone un-updated. I PROMISE it won't be nearly as long before the next, though!**

**Thanks so much to those of you who have been reviewing! You guys are so awesome! It means a lot and I really appreciate it :D**

**So I know that most of you probably want to punch me in the face right now for being so slow, but please, PLEASE review! What did you like? Dislike? Want to see? Not want to see? LET ME KNOW! :D Thanks!**


	11. Partner Bonding Time

Okay, so, I'm not exactly sure why I'm here. Shawn called me, screamed "EMERGENCY" into the phone when I picked up, and then hung up. For some, unknown reason, I decided to humor him and I came here (the Psych Office, of course. Where else would he be?). He was leaving when I got here and, on his way out the door, told me to "tell them", and then he left on his motorcycle.

So, I'm not one hundred percent sure what Shawn wants me to 'tell you', but I think it's safe to assume that he would be referring to the one and only thing he's been talking about lately: his kidnapping.

Don't get me wrong; I understand that it must've been a traumatic experience for him. It's just, does he really have to talk about it all. The. Time?

Okay, sorry. I'm getting a little ahead of myself.

I don't know how much he's told you so far, so I'll sum it up. We've got a crazy, psychopathic serial killer on the loose who tweets his actions in real time. He also influenced another psycho to do the same thing, so we caught him—well, really the real one shot the fake one and brought him to us, but oh well—but the real one is still out there killing one person every day and he's tweeting but he's not leaving behind any evidence so we can't find him.

Got all that? Great. Moving forward.

Carlton and I were staking out the Sloanes (Gavin Sloane, the son, was the fake killer) in case The Executioner (the real one) tried to make contact with Mrs. Sloane. We'd talked about it and, based on the circumstances, it seemed likely that The Executioner was connected to the Sloanes in one way or another. That was the only way that it would make sense for Gavin to do what he did. The details about the first murders hadn't been released to the public, so how did Gavin manage to recreate them almost perfectly?

Maybe it wasn't a solid lead, but we were grasping at straws at that point. After seven murders in a row, Lassiter and I were taking anything we could get.

At about eleven-thirty at night, a call from Buzz interrupted the monotony of what had to be one of the most boring stakeouts of all time.

"Juliet?" He sounded flustered and distracted.

"Yes, Buzz, It's me. What's wrong?" Upon hearing my worried tone, Lassiter's head snapped up from the position it had been in for the past thirty minutes.

"What?" He asked me. I waved off his question. How fast did he expect Buzz to be able to answer?

"The power's out!" Buzz cried. From the way he said it, you'd think a tornado had just ripped the station apart.

"Is that McNab?" Lassiter asked from beside me. I waved him off again.

"So?" I questioned McNab.

"So no one is watching the twitter account!" Now I got it.

"Well can't someone pull it up on their phone or laptop or something?" I wondered. It seemed like the obvious solution to me.

"Pull up what?" Lassiter pitched in again.

This time I turned to him, putting my hand over my cell's receiver. "Shut up, Carlton."

Lassiter looked irritated at being ordered by an 'inferior', but he quieted for the moment.

"No one knows how to!" Buzz was saying.

"Wait, how is that possible?" I asked in disbelief. I couldn't believe that, out of a station full of trained police officers, no one could figure out how to use the Internet.

"Juliet, it's almost midnight. I'm one of like seven people here, and I'm the youngest by about twenty years."

"Why don't you do it, then?"

"My phone doesn't have Internet!"

I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. Of course. Why should we get a break now?

"Okay. Are there people there fixing whatever it is that's causing the problem?"

I could almost see Buzz nodding excitedly. "Yep! They got here about five minutes ago. They said it could take a while."

"Well fantastic," I muttered under my breath, "Don't worry about it, Buzz. We'll handle it. Just call us when the power comes back on. Okay?"

I was about to hang up when Buzz's voice stopped me. "Wait, Juliet! There's one more thing."

"What?"

"The tech guys—the ones that came to fix the power—they said that the power lines were cut."

"Cut?"

"Yeah, like someone went out and used some sort of tool to physically cut the line. The power's out on the whole street, at least. Someone did this on purpose."

It just kept getting better and better.

Lassiter assaulted me with questions the second I hung up. He had been quiet after I yelled at him, but he was turned sideways in his seat, completely engrossed with the half-conversation he could hear.

"Who was that? It was McNab, wasn't it? He's the only one who you'd talk to like he was a five year old on a sugar high—well, maybe Spencer, but you didn't sound nearly irritated enough for—"

"Lassiter," I didn't yell, but I used that low and dangerous warning tone that I'm convinced all women are born with—it's like an adaptation we've developed over time to deal with the men of the world. It was enough to shut him up. "Ask one question at a time, and wait for me to answer it before you give your input." After sitting still in a car for five or so hours, I was not in the mood for Lassiter's sleep-depravation-induced high.

He looked annoyed as he said, putting emphasis on each word, "Was that McNab?"

"Yes."

"What is the problem?"

I couldn't help but smile a little at controlled anger in my partner's voice. He hates being told what to do. "The power's out at the station. According to the tech guys, someone cut a power line."

Carlton took a moment to digest this information. "Did any of the cameras outside of the station catch our guy?"

"I don't know."

He looked at me incredulously for a moment. "You don't know. What do you mean, you don't know? Didn't you ask?" Oh my gosh. Did he hear me ask? Sometimes I don't like Lassiter. "If this is connected to the Executioner, our psycho could be on those tapes! I can't believe you didn't even ask. Who do you think you are, O'Hara? McNab?"

I took a moment to compose myself before I spoke. I was slightly annoyed at being talked to like I was seven years old. "Carlton," I began, speaking slowly and deliberately.

"Yes?" 

"The power is out."

"Yeah, I got that part, O'Hara."

"It takes electricity to pull up footage from the cameras."

Lassiter nodded. "So?"

I didn't say anything. I just sat there and stared at him.

I could tell the exact moment that the realization hit him. His face fell as he understood his stupidity, but only a moment before, in his usual, as Shawn would say, Lassitarian manner, he regained his composure and attempted to talk it off.

"Well, yes. Of course. Obviously I meant that you need to check with McNab once the power comes back on." He said awkwardly.

I hid my smile as well as I could. "Oh, of course. I'll get right on that."

Lassiter glared at my obvious sarcasm, but he didn't get a chance to make a comment of his own as something outside the car, just in front of the Sloane's house caught my eye.

"Lassiter, someone's out there."

**OooOooO**

**Yay new chapter! **

**Thanks so much to those of you who have reviewed! Y'all are awesome! Please keep it up! **

**Even though, I'm sad to report that, while fanfic had 15 reviews for the last chappie (YOU GUYS ROCK!) psychfic had 1. Please review, guys! Thanks!**

**BY THE WAY! I'm a complete loser for forgetting to do this so far, but I have to give ****Captain Rittera Smith**** credit for the awesome idea to have Shawn and the Executioner tweet back and forth. That idea totally knocked down a massive writers block, so thanks! :D**


	12. Could Happen to Any But the Best of Us

_**JULIET**_

I don't know whether it was the sleep depravation getting to his head, the stress of being shut up in a car for seemingly endless hours putting him on edge, or maybe he really _is _crazy, but the second the words were out of my mouth, Lassiter was throwing himself out of the car and up the street towards the Sloanes' house.

"Carlton!" I was screaming after him but, unsurprisingly, I may as well have been trying to talk down a charging rhinoceros.

"SBPD! Freeze!" Lassiter cried, drawing out his gun and training it on the still-unidentified person who was skirting the side of the house.

I ran up next to him and pulled out my gun as well because, even though I thought that Lassiter had completely lost it, I still had to have his back. "Hands in the air!"

"Don't shoot!" A hysterical voice cried.

I sighed and lowered my gun because, as the terrified voice foreshadowed, a shaking teenage girl stood on the other side of my barrel.

"Please, don't shoot!" She cried again and raised her hands above her head.

I looked over at Lassiter and, seeing that his gun was still raised, elbowed him hard in the ribs.

"Ow! What was that for?"

I nodded to the girl, then to his gun, and then looked at him meaningfully. I could see that moment when understanding dawned on him, and he lowered his gun, looking embarrassed.

"Who are you?" Lassiter questioned, rubbing his now-sore ribs. Not going to lie, it was very satisfying for me.

"Julia McDermott. I'm Gavin's girlfriend."

Yeah, I know. The psychopath has a girlfriend. Weird, right?

"Wait, Gavin as in Gavin Sloane?" I asked her, convinced that there must be some sort of crazy coincidence going on. I mean, how does a psychopath get a girlfriend? Especially one as pretty as this girl? I don't want to sound rude, but doesn't it seem kind of strange?

Julia nodded, though, and looked at me like I was an idiot for asking.

"Wait, you're dating a psychopath?" Lassiter asked bluntly, sounding as baffled as I felt. The two of us had discussed the eighteen year old a few times and we'd both come to the same conclusion about his mental health.

"Gavin's not a psychopath!" Julia automatically jumped to her boyfriend's defense. She stood before us, right under a second-story window that we later found out led to Gavin's room. For some reason, her hands were still up.

"Yeah, okay. Because any _normal_ teenage boy would go out and kill an innocent man for fun, then post the murder on twitter." Lassiter commented, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

Julia dropped her hands and, in an instant, her body language switched from terrified girl to defiant teenager. "No! He's not a psychopath! He's not! He loves me!"

I was quickly starting to wonder whether or not she was crazy, too.

"Okay, sure—" Carlton was about to be a sarcastic jerk again when Julia interrupted him.

"No! Just listen to me, okay?" Lassiter sighed, but relented. "Gav's a partial psychopath."

Lassiter threw his hands up in the air. "Oh, of course! A _partial _psychopath! Why didn't I think of that?"

"I'm being serious! Yeah, he can be impulsive and a little violent sometimes, but he has feelings. He's a good kid, really."

Now it was my turn to be the sarcastic jerk. "Really? I have a dead man in the morgue who'd disagree."

"He didn't mean to kill that guy! Well, maybe he did a little. But it wasn't his fault."

Obviously it was completely pointless to argue with the girl at this point. She had reached the point where she was completely naive to logic and reason, and she fully believed anything her boyfriend told her. I felt bad for her, really.

"Why are you here?" Lassiter mercifully came to the same conclusion and changed the subject.

"I wanted to see Gavin. He hasn't been answering my calls. I haven't seen him in over a week. It's been going around that he was arrested, but I want to hear it from him."

"Going around where?" I wondered. Sure Gavin's been in the hospital for more than a week, but he hasn't been formally booked yet.

"Twitter." She answered simply.

Of course.

OooOooO

_**SHAWN**_

Yeah, okay. It's taking waaaaayy too long for Jules to get on with her side of the story. Seriously, how is it possible that I was able to go down the street, buy a delicious pineapple flavored smoothie, finish it on the way back, go back for another, and walk all the way home to the Psych office before she even gets to the part where she realizes I was kidnapped?

Women.

Anyways, I'm going to interject here for a tad before you all die of boredom, or computers are replaced by little microchips that read your brainwaves and all this is made obsolete.

I was a little disappointed that no one figured out my hint! Just as a reminder…

*Ahem * Vultures.

I got a lot of people that thought I was eaten alive. A bunch thought I was killed and dumped in the Sahara. Well here's another clue, people!

I'M TELLING YOU THIS STORY RIGHT NOW!

Sure, I could be telling from beyond the grave, but in order for that to be true, Jules and Allen from the smoothie place would have to be dead, too.

Don't worry, that little gap in logic could happen to the best of us—especially Gus. Well, it wouldn't happen to me, so I guess 'that little gap in logic could happen to any but the very best of us'.

I'll walk you through it.

Vultures are a very specific type of carnivore called a SCAVENGER. A SCAVENGER, as in SCAVENGER HUNT.

Yup, that sicko kidnapped me and then sent Lassie and Jules on a scavenger hunt to find me before it was too late.

I may not have died, but that doesn't mean I didn't get beat up a little.

**OooOooO**

**HEY! Remember this story? Yeah, didn't think so. **

**Please don't hate me! Between school, softball, musical, and family crap, please just be grateful that I finished this chappie before the world blows up next December. **

**Thank you so much for sticking with this story! I SWEAR ON MY LEFT PINKIE TOE THE NEXT ONE WILL BE FASTER!**

** REVIEW!**

**It means an unbelievable lot to me! Thanks so much :D**

**Also, I'd really appreciate it if you would take a moment to look at my latest story, "Rock of the Ages". It's just a fun little oneshot. Any feed back you could give me would mean a lot! **


	13. My Game Now

_**JULIET**_

So, since, according to Shawn, I'm being unbearably boring, I'll speed things up from here. Also, just a little forewarning, don't let Shawn confuse you. Anything he may or may not have told you about me and Lassiter's side of things is likely completely false. He never actually listens when we tell him what happened, and then he likes to go and 'dramatize', aka completely make up things.

Anyways, moving on…

Carlton and I took Julia McDermott back to the station. We abandoned our stakeout (not complaining about that) because, if anyone was going to show up at the Sloanes' for any reason that concerned us, they either would have already, or we'd have scared them off when Lassiter went in guns blazing.

The Sloanes live pretty far away from the station, so you'd think the power would be back up by the time we got back, right? Wrong. It was one forty-five in the morning at this point; the power had been out for over two hours.

"What the hell?" Lassiter yelled the moment he stepped into the darkness. "Why is the power out?"

"Someone cut the power lines." A large workman told us, making his way over to where we were standing.

Lassiter sighed and rolled his eyes. "Let me rephrase that. Why is the power _still _out?" His voice had already taken on that annoyed tone that I usually take as my cue to leave him alone.

The workman, however, was unfazed. "It's a work in progress, _sir,_" He said, putting a sarcastic stress on the title, "the lines were cut. It's not like I can flip a switch and make the lights come on. I have to wait for new lines to be delivered."

"Well how long is that going to take?"

The man shrugged, "I dunno. They should be here any second. It'll take some time to install, though, so I'd say an hour."

Carlton groaned loudly, "What, can't you go any faster than that?"

The workman raised an eyebrow and looked at my partner coolly, "I'll go as fast as I can, _sir. _That is, of course, unless you want to go do it yourself."

I really wanted to shake his hand or something.

"Just… get it done…" Lassiter commanded weakly and then stormed off towards his desk. I think he was trying to retain what little dignity he had left.

I made sure that Buzz had Julia McDermott in his custody before I followed. Buzz was to call Julia's parents and have her picked up.

I went after Lassiter over to our desks. The main overhead lights weren't on, but we had the dim lighting provided by those little emergency lights on the walls.

"This doesn't make any sense," I heard Lassiter mumble under his breath. He had his head stuck in one of his filing cabinets as if he were searching for something.

"What?" I wondered. He pulled himself away from his papers to look at me. "What doesn't make sense?"

"This," He answered gesturing broadly to the whole station, "All of this. None it makes sense."

"Does it ever?" I asked him—rather philosophically, if I may say so myself. Really though, when does it ever make sense for one person to take the lives of several other perfect strangers?

Lassiter shrugged as if acknowledging my point. "Well, yes and no. Even if the motive for killing doesn't make sense, usually some sense can be found in the method—not just the method of killing, but the killer's overall conduct. Sometimes you have the people who want to stay secretive, sometimes you have the guys that want their fifteen minutes, but this guy just can't seem to make up his mind."

"That is, of course, assuming that The Executioner is the one that cut the power," I pitched in.

Carlton looked at me like I was an idiot. "Well, it'd be a hell of a coincidence if he wasn't. I just don't understand why he's made such a point to show us what he's doing so far, only to make us blind now. What's the motivation?"

I pulled a chair over to sit across from him, in front of his desk. "There's always the classics," I offered, "fame, money, admiration, revenge—"

"But none of those make sense! He's not making any sort of statement with his killings; the victims aren't related in any way, and he only started publicizing his killings when that punk Gavin Sloane tried to steal his thunder,"Lassiter spieled off with frustration.

"Fun?" I suggested the last and most worrisome prospect of all. The Executioner very well could be murdering all those innocent people as a means to entertain himself.

Lassiter met my eyes with a look that told me that that was his suspicion. "We've seen it before," He said simply.

I definitely knew what he was referring to. Funny how being kidnapped by a serial killer and left to fall to your death will do that to you.

After that we both made ourselves busy with the case. Well, to clarify, we made ourselves busy trying to make ourselves busy. We didn't so much have a lot to go on—especially with no access to our computers. It's actually sort of interesting, you know that whole stereotype about how a police station is in a sort of chaotic frenzy—everybody running around, following different leads—during a high profile case? Well it's totally true, but totally not. A good portion of those officers are doing what Lassiter and I were. They're going over old leads, or leads that someone else is already covering, or quadruple checking something. Basically, they're trying their best to be productive when there's nothing to do. The sad thing about these cases is that sometimes there's nothing you can do until the killer makes his next move.

We didn't have to wait long.

True to his word, the workman and his coworkers got the power back on as quickly as they could. It ended up being about forty-five minutes after we returned to the station.

There was a loud noise as the power started up again, followed by the all of the lights flickering on. What happened next wasn't quite as expected.

Every computer screen and projector (the ones we use for station-wide briefings) came on at once. Instead of our usual sign in screens, though, what looked like a live video stream was pulled up. A man dressed completely in black, from his pants to his facemask, was sitting in a seemingly empty room.

"What the hell…" Lassiter growled. Other than that, the station was eerily silent.

"_I've given you everything you need," _The man said in an electronically modified voice, _"but still, you can't catch me. I'm disappointed in you, Detective Lassiter." _

I gasped in surprise and shot a look at my partner. He was as white as a sheet and completely absorbed by the screen.

"_How can the lovely Miss O'Hara expect to learn from you if you can't even catch a humble man such as myself?"_

My turn to go white as a sheet. This was beyond creepy.

"_I've got to say, this has gotten boring. I go in, I kill, I go out. Even though I tell you where I am and what I'm doing, you can't catch me. Now that's no fun."_

It seemed like Lassiter and I were correct in our theory.

"_So I've decided to change the rules—no, that's too mild—I've decided to change the game entirely. This is it for me, my grand finale, and you, along with a certain friend of yours, are my costars." _

With that The Executioner stood up and walked over towards the camera. He grabbed the lens and moved it to reveal another person in the room. My heart dropped to my toes when I saw who it was. I felt like I was going to throw up. He was unconscious, he was bloody, but he was unmistakable.

"_Mr. Spencer has been quite an interesting opponent thus far. True, I'm a little disappointed that he didn't get closer to finding me, but hey. He's only human, right? Or wait, is he a little more than that?"_

The Executioner stopped his circling around Shawn's chair and seemed to ponder the idea for a moment. Then he shrugged and continued.

"_Either way, I feel like this will be more entertaining with the factor of his investigative skills out of the way. Not to mention, I need a victim." _

The Executioner flashed a sickening smile through his mask and walked out of the frame. I took the opportunity to exchange a glance with Lassiter. He looked as sickened as I felt.

When the man returned with a metal baseball bat and what looked like smelling salts, Lassiter shouted to the station, "Someone go look at those damned security tapes!"

McNab promptly turned and sprinted towards the security room. He looked glad to be pulled away from the video.

"_How about a little pre-game warm up before I get to the rules?" _He asked, cracking open the package of smelling salts and holding them under Shawn's nose.

Shawn promptly shot awake. He was sitting in a plain metal chair, with his arms and legs secured to the sides with rope. _"Wha-What?" _Shawn spluttered, meeting his restraints as he tried to move his arms. He started looking around desperately and saw his captor. _"Who are you? Where-Where am I?"_

Even watching through the medium of the camera, I could make out the glassy look in his eyes, and hear the slight slur to his words. Shawn definitely had a concussion.

Watching him struggle along with all of his confusion made my heart contract so painfully in my chest I thought I was going to pass out. I didn't, though, and as much as I wanted to tear myself away from the screen, I remained glued to the image of Shawn.

"_Say hello to your friends, Shawnee!" _The executioner pointed, drawing Shawn's attention to the camera before he reared back and savagely swung the bat into Shawn's mid-section. Shawn let out a surprised cry of pain and tried to double over only to be stopped by his bindings.

On the other side, I let out an involuntary cry that drew looks from everyone in the station.

"O'Hara, maybe you should…" Lassiter started, sounding concerned. He trailed off after I shot him a glare. "Tell me someone is tracing this or something!" He shouted.

"We're trying, but the signal is being rerouted all over the world," One of the tech guys called out. He was frantically typing away at a laptop.

"Detective Lassiter!" Buzz cried, reaching the top of the stairs that led to the security room. "The tapes are gone!" He announced, out of breath.

"What?"

"The security tapes, they're gone! And one of the tech guys looked and said that our server or software or something like that was switched while the power was out! The Executioner has complete control over our system!"

"How is that possible?" I wondered, my eyes not leaving the screen in front of me for a second. Shawn, who still looked completely disoriented, was gasping in pain and trying to catch his breath. I was so filled with anger at the dark figure on the screen that I thought I was going to scream.

"He would have had to switch it himself," The tech from earlier spoke up again, stopping his mad typing. "That means he was here, like, in the station."

A silence fell over the station, only to be interrupted by laughing coming from the screen.

"_Yes, that's very good. I was there right under all your noses. _

_Like I said, this is my game now."_

**OooOooO**

**AHHHH CLIFFE! To be honest, I wasn't so much planning on this happening. I'm super excited about it, though :D**

**So this was like, a week later than I thought it would be, but it's SUPER DUPER long! That evens it out, right? Ps, on that note, it's really late so I didn't really proof read this. Sorry :/**

**Okay, what do you want to see happen? PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE let me know! I really appreciate any reviews you'll send my way! **

**PLEASE REVIEW! ****Thanks! :D**


	14. The Host

**Hey guys. First up, I'm gonna pre-warn you that this is a non-chapter. BUT I HAVE A GOOD REASON THIS TIME!**

**On Sunday I was bucked off a horse, broke my clavicle, and had to have a titanium plate and 6 screws put in surgically yesterday. Writing this out with one hand isn't easy. **

**I'm all fine and dandy (ish) now, but my speed of production is considerably slowed, so I thought I'd give you this tidbit to tide you over. Enjoy.**

**OooOooO**

_**SHAWN**_

You can't say I didn't warn you. It's all very dramatic, isn't it?

So I suppose I can catch you up a little from my end now. In all honesty, the only reason I waited was because I thought it would be more epic and suspenseful coming from Jules. Just so you could get the whole, heartbroken and terrified vibe from my should-be girlfriend.

…Wait a sec…_were _Jules and I dating at this point? Maybe it was "the heartbroken and terrified vibe from my girlfriend". I honestly can't remember…

Oh well. I suppose some combination of a grade three concussion and all sorts of drugs in my system are messing with my head. For instance, who knew that The Executioner hacked into the SBPD's computers and live-streamed footage of me? I just assumed that everyone found out that I was kidnapped through twitter! I really was out of the loop for all of this. That's probably another reason I had Jules narrate for a while…

You know what? Y'all can deal with it. I'm just going to continue on, and you'll just have to recognize the fact that I can't account for the validity of any of the events I am about to dictate. Everyone cool with that?

Good.

So, The Executioner wasn't exactly the most gracious of hosts. I remember that he had some freakish affinity for smelling salts. He just couldn't let a guy pass out and be at peace. Any time I went out, he had to just wake me up and continue his fun. Efficient? Yes. Hospitable? No. How much you want to bet this guy's related to Attila the Hun? Or, some other historical person that fits that basic personality type…

The first time I woke up, though, he wasn't there at all. I was in the back of some sort of van. That's really not surprising, though. It's not like this guy took me to whatever remote location I was at on the back of a donkey. I was only awake for a minute or so, but I remember seeing a sliver of light shining through the window. Through this, I was able to deduce that either A) We'd been driving for a long time, or B) We hadn't left right after he attacked me. I knew this because it was sometime late at night or early in the morning that I was talking to him on twitter.

The next time I woke up wasn't nearly so pleasant. Sure, the first time the pain of a thousand jackhammers was drilling into my head, but at least I had the soothing, peaceful ambience of the quiet van around me. The second time was what I can only assume to be the incident that Jules just told you guys about. Remember, where Mr. E made me real friendly with his trusty baseball bat?

Hmmm. Mr. E. It's nice and short. I like it.

Anyways, that time was pretty much like Jules described it. I can't tell you how many times Mr. E hit me, and I can't really even describe the pain. All I can tell you is that that pain was nothing compared to what was to come.

Oh yes, my friends. Mr. E was not lying. He was only just warming up.

**OooOooO**

**See, I toldya! Non-chapter.**

**I'm sorry, guys, but it really is the best I can do. I'm not feeling so well right now. Now I'm going to post this and then sleep! Super excited about that! **

**Thanks so much for all the reviews, guys. You really have been awesome. I'm sorry that the updates have been so lacking :/**

**I'd encourage you guys to go read my newest story "Collateral Damage", cowritten with the amazing Syncop8ed Rhythm. Don't worry, it's been in progress since December, so it's not distracting me from this. I promise.**

**Thanks again, and PLEASE REVIEW! :D **


	15. Nightmares

_**JULIET**_

I felt like I was living in a waking nightmare.

The Executioner's voice filled the room, coming from every speaker in sight.

"_Like I said, this is my game now." _He taunted and then laughed cruelly.

Automatically I realized the horrible truth: The Executioner had ears and probably eyes inside the station. He hadn't called out Lassiter and I earlier by chance. He was watching us—forcing us to play his game.

A quick glance at my partner told me that he'd come to the same conclusion.

"Your game?" Lassiter spoke up defiantly. "What exactly is it that you want, you sicko?"

The Executioner's face was obscured by his mask, but somehow I could still see the grin that I'm sure was plastered there. We were playing along.

"_Want?" _He questioned chuckling at the absurdity. _"Why I _want _the same thing I have this whole time."_ He explained, moving towards the camera, in turn blocking our view of Shawn. _"Nothing." _

I felt a chill shoot down my spine. The guy was crazy.

"Nothing?" I repeated. "Well, you can get nothing somewhere else. Let Shawn go."

For some reason, my insistence set the murderer off laughing yet again.

"_You are a funny one, Ms. O'Hara. Unfortunately I will be needing Mr. Spencer a little while longer."_

He turned to resume circling Shawn. As my friend re-entered the shot, I found myself studying him over. He was still gasping for air, but not with quite as much desperation as before. Though the Executioner had only hit him once, the blow had been crushing, and I was guessing that Shawn had a broken rib or two. The concussion that he was already dealing with left him with a detached look of confusion, terror, and pain. His usual goofy, carefree expression was gone without a trace.

I felt a sharp tug in my chest. The man being projected on the screens around me somehow managed to look identical to Shawn and completely different.

Without warning the kidnapper swung the bat into a high spot on Shawn's chest. The scream he let out was horrifying. I found myself stuffing my fist into my mouth to muffle my own sounds. I knew that every eye in the station was glued on me, but I couldn't tear myself away from image on the screen. I can't really explain it, but I felt like I'd be abandoning him if I did.

It's currently under debate whether or not Shawn and I were dating at this point. If you ask me, I say that we were in that awkward stage between going out and being boyfriend and girlfriend. Trust me, if you're a girl and you've ever dated anyone, you'll know exactly what I mean.

To be honest, though, I don't really think it matters. Whether we were dating or not (we were, just for the record) I cared for Shawn deeply at this point it time. Seeing him in such ungodly physical pain was like a stab to my own heart.

Not to mention the shock of seeing him there. I mean, yeah, sure, as police officers we put ourselves in harm's way everyday (occupational hazard), but that really doesn't prepare you much for the sight of your maybe boyfriend popping up out of the blue on your computer screen, being tortured by a psychopathic serial killer.

"O'Hara," I vaguely registered my partner's voice beside me, "maybe you should go get some coffee or something?" Lassiter suggested.

I turned to him, ready to deny his offer, when I was interrupted by The Executioner's now-familiar laugh.

"_Why yes, Ms. O'Hara. Listen to your partner. This game is for the big boys—wouldn't want a delicate little thing like you getting hurt."_

Something in the killer's voice sent shivers up my spine and made my hair stand on end. He was making a very clear threat. Lassiter obviously thought the same, as he stepped protectively in front of me.

I'm sure Lassiter would have spoken had another voice not been added to the mix.

"_O-O'Hara? Jules?" _Shawn wheezed, looking around the room frantically. _"J-Jules?" _His eyes locked onto his kidnapper. _"You! Where is-is she? I-if you hur-hurt her, I sw-swear—"_

I saw The Executioner's move this time before it happened. "No!" I cried out helplessly, unable to stop the metal bat from striking Shawn in the lower stomach with so much force that the entire chair toppled over. His yell of pain was cut short as his head hit the ground, knocking him out.

I buried my face in my hands, unable to stare at the image of Shawn bleeding and out cold on the ground. I didn't realize that I had started crying until I felt the warm wetness on my fingers.

The station was deathly quiet. The officers were furious, knowing Shawn personally, and the tech workers seemed shocked to silence. The only sounds that I could make out were coming from the speakers. The Executioner was pacing and breathing heavily. He threw his bat to the ground.

"_Damn it," _I heard him mutter to himself, _"That happened way too early. No use in trying smelling salts…"_

The Executioner continued to speak madly with himself.

"_Oh, well. Just means phase two starts early, that's all."_

I lifted my head out of my hands enough to glance at the large screen in the station. I made a point to avoid looking at Shawn and studied his kidnapper.

He was pacing quickly, back in forth, standing between Shawn and the camera. As I was watching he stopped in his tracks, ran a hand through his hair, seemed to ponder something for a moment, and then turned to the camera once more.

"_Well, my friends, I am sorry to say that Mr. Spencer wasn't as difficult to break as I had thought." _He announced. I felt anger shoot through me. I opened my mouth to snap back, but I felt Lassiter come up beside me. He laid a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it lightly. I turned to look at my partner, saw the serious expression on his face, and stayed silent. _"But don't you worry. Act two is much more…enthralling…Don't go anywhere. I'll be back soon."_

Just like that the power shut off—the computer screens went blank and the lights went out. We all stood quietly for about ten seconds before the lights came back on.

Lassiter was the first to snap back to reality. "Someone tell me they got something. Anything."

Silence.

My partner looked around the room, studying each face. "No one?"

Silence.

"Well you damn well better have something within the next five minutes." The rest of the station seemed to return to life as officers and techies scrambled to find answers. "I want to know who this guy is, where he is, how he managed to grab Spencer, and someone tell me how the hell he managed to get in here and steal those security tapes under all of your noses!" Lassiter managed. His voice had taken on a familiar, dangerous tone.

However, when he turned to me his voice was soft and foreign. "O'Hara?" I was standing, frozen in shock, staring at the blank screen. "Are you okay?"

Lassiter seemed to be just as surprised as I felt when I started laughing hysterically in response. "Of course I'm fine! Fantastic. Peachy."

I responded sarcastically. It was a stupid question, after all.

"Maybe you should—" He began.

"Not a chance," I cut him off. "But if you suggest that I take a break one more time, I will shoot you."

Lassiter nodded to accept my point, although he didn't seem too concerned by my threat.

Whatever my partner planned to say next was cut off by the screens flickering back to life. The Executioner's masked face came into focus in the shot.

"He's back on!" Carlton yelled, clearly shocked that the kidnapper had returned so quickly.

"_Hello there! Sorry about the brief interruption. Final preparations—you know how it is." _The Executioner's artificial voice filled my ears and I found myself staring at the screens, transfixed. _"Act two is about to begin. However, before we start I'd like to lay down the rules for you fine people. To put it simply, I will be giving you a series of riddles. If you solve it in time, you win. If not, you lose. You will have twelve hours. And your prize?"_

The camera swung out to reveal Shawn. I felt my heart stop in my chest. Deathly cold fear gripped my heart. My knees went weak and I collapsed into my desk chair.

"Son of a bitch," I heard Lassiter mutter to himself, turning away from the image and running a hand through his hair anxiously.

Shawn had a bomb strapped to his chest.

**OooOooO**

**Sup, guys?**

**So, I realize that it's been a million years since I updated. Between breaking my collarbone, having to have surgery, 3 weeks at camp without internet, my computer crashing over vacation, and two weeks in Europe, also without internet, this is the best I could do. I'm really sorry, guys. I hope that it helps that this chappie is longer that usual and has tons of plot development and whump. **

**Next chappie should be up relatively soon.**

**Y'all have been ridiculously awesome with the reviews. I know I don't deserve it with my updating, but I appreciate it if you keep it up! Thanks! :D**


	16. Personal Attacks

**I'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSORRRY**

**Please don't hate me! Junior year, guys. I'm trying, I promise.**

**Angst abounds!**

**OooOooO**

**_JULIET_  
**

"So now that I have your attention, I'd suggest that you listen carefully." The Executioner's voice seemed to be coming from a million miles away, his already distorted voice made even more muffled by the blood that was pounding furiously in my ears.

"Mr. Spencer is not going anywhere. I'm making it easy on you—you're welcome. It's a lot easier to hit a stationary target than a moving one. And, just so you don't think that I'm pulling the wool over your eyes, I'm being kind enough to leave this camera feed running so that you can be certain that Mr. Spencer doesn't wander off."

I was only vaguely registering The Executioner's words. A sort of numbness had taken hold of me. It was sort of like I had countless different emotions bombarding me from all sides, powerful and overbearing to the point that my mind, not knowing which emotion to go with, decided it would be easier to just shut down.

"That being said, I also feel I must point the fact that, should you fail to solve my riddles in the next twelve hours, Shawnee here will never leave this room again—save for in a dust pan." The man made as if to walk away, but turned back, his smirk visible despite his facemask. "Oh, that also means that, should you fail, you will have one hell of a show broadcasted, free of charge, straight into your cozy little station. Yes, ladies and gents, you'll be lucky enough to witness those last few, precious seconds of your one and only Shawn Spencer's life before he is blown to hell."

And just like that the war ended. The numbness receded and the anger crept in. I looked up at the image on the briefing screen and it was as if I was making direct eye contact with The Executioner himself. Pure hatred for the man in front of me began blossoming in the pit of my stomach.

"What do you think, Detective O'Hara?"

I felt every eye in the station boring into me.

"Hm? Oh, come on, Juliet!" He turned and began pacing behind Shawn's chair. "What will it feel like, watching your sweetheart here die right in front of you?"

Anger. Hatred. Terror.

"And what about those last few seconds? Watching as his life ticks away in front of your eyes."

Fury. Panic. Desperation.

"You know, he'll probably be awake by then. He'll be able to count down right along with the clock. He'll know _exactly _how many seconds he has left to live." He stopped in his tracks and crouched down next to Shawn.

"What do you think, Detective O'Hara? Do you think he'll beg?"

I snapped.

Red clouded my vision and, screaming, I launched myself out of my chair. I threw myself towards the screen as if tearing it to shreds would do the same to the man behind it. I didn't make it two feet.

With the sound of The Executioner's cruel laughter filling my ears, I felt my partner grab me from behind. His two strong arms wrapped around my midsection, holding me back. I struggled against him.

"O'Hara! Juliet!"

Lassiter held onto me until I relented, slackening against him, at which point he pulled me into an embrace. I buried my face into his chest, not out of embarrassment—at that point I couldn't even bring myself to care that I had basically just had a psychological breakdown in front of half of my coworkers—but as a feeble attempt to shut out…well, everything. My partner wrapped one arm around my back protectively and used the other to cradle the back of my head, holding me against him.

I could feel anger, determination, and protectiveness radiating off of Lassiter and, despite everything else, felt my heart swell with love for my partner. By 'love' I'm absolutely, one hundred percent referring to the brotherly, sisterly, he's-like-family kind of thing.

"That's right, Detective Lassiter," The Executioner's voice came booming over the speakers, and I felt Carlton's grip on me tighten, "protect your little pet. Wouldn't want her to go off and get herself hurt, now would we?"

It was my turn to tighten my grip around Lassiter. This guy was definitely getting into my head.

"Don't you dare threaten her." Carlton growled, his voice low and dangerous.

That awful laughter rang around the room once again.

"Would you just give us the riddle, already?"

I was surprised to hear the voice of none other than Buzz McNab added to the mix. I made as if to pull away from my partner, but Lassiter held me firmly, refusing to let me move. I only had to wonder why for a few seconds.

"Very well, Officer McNab. If you insist." I heard a faint groan. "Oh, Mr. Spencer! What a pleasant surprise. I thought you'd be out for hours."

"Wha—where am I? Oh, God. Is-is that what I th-think it is?"

Awful as it made me feel, I found myself thankful that I couldn't see Shawn's face. I can't even imagine the terror that he must have felt, waking up with a bomb strapped on him.

"Why, yes. Yes it is. Anyways—"

"Maybe-maybe we should talk about this—"

I heard a thud and a grunt and buried my face deeper into Carlton's chest. By this point the tears from my eyes had begun to soak through Lassiter's jacket.

"That was for your benefit, Miss O'Hara. Come on. Turn around. Wave to Shawnee," The Executioner commanded, but I stayed frozen, wanting nothing more than to disappear.

"What? Jules?" Shawn piped up, his voice filled with the same confusion that he had before he was knocked out.

Shawn cried out and I knew he'd been hit again.

"Come on, Juliet." _Hit_. "Turn" _Hit "_Around." _Hit_. "Shawnee" _Hit _"wants to" _Hit _"see you." _Hit._

I ripped myself from Lassiter's embrace and turned defiantly to face the screen. Shawn was hunched over in his chair, panting, with blood leaking from his nose and mouth. I swallowed.

"Ah. There we go, Detective! That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"Shawn…" The name was torn from my lips. If The Executioner could hear me, Shawn could, too, right?

Sure enough, his eyes rose from the ground and he scanned the room, as if looking for the source of the noise. Finally Shawn locked onto what I can only assume to be streaming from whatever device The Executioner had hidden in the station.

"Jules?" He spoke my name weakly.

"Shawn." I replied firmly, unable to think of anything to say.

"What? Where? Wha—" He babbled. I could tell that he still had quite a concussion to jumble around his thoughts.

"It's alright, Shawn," I choked out, "We're gonna find you, okay? Everything's going to be fine."

Shawn stared at his image of me for a second before nodding. "Okay." He said simply.

I was taken aback, flattered, and terrified by the level of trust demonstrated by that one little word.

"Awww, how sweet!" The Executioner spoke up. "Young love. So full of promise. So full of naivety. We'll see if you still feel that way twelve hours from now, Mr. Spencer."

With that the man pulled a small trigger from his pocket.

"No!" I cried as he activated it.

Suddenly a mechanical beeping noise filled the room as a twelve-hour countdown began in the upper-right-hand corner of every screen in the station.

"Twelve hours starts now, Detectives. Better get started. If I were you, I'd go to the home that isn't a house, where Crockett and Tubbs live."

"What the hell does that mean?" Lassiter questioned.

The Executioner ignored him.

"Oh, and Detectives, one more thing. Mr. Spencer here only lives if you can solve each and every riddle, make it here, and disarm the bomb. Any shortcuts and Shawnee here is blown to kingdom come." He gestured to the trigger in his hand. "Remote activated trigger. My version of insurance. And I mean it. One wrong move and I'll be returning your psychic here in a matchbox."

**OooOooO**

**Remember me? Probably not. I'm sorry, guys. I'm really am doing my best, but life, you know? Crazy stuff. I just hope y'all realize that, frustrating as my rate of update may be, it's infinitely worse for me because I never get to write.**

**That being said, thanks for being so flipping awesome, you guys. Really, y'all have been reviewing like nobody's business and keeping the irritated attacks to a minimum and I really appreciate it.**

**I'd also like to shamelessly advertise the two stories I've been betaing. Guys. They're awesome. Like, really awesome. Take my advice. Read them. And please be as fantastic as you are with me and review! Thanks! **

**Mr. Darcy**** by chevyimpala1967**

**www. fanfiction .net/s/7332636/1/Mr_Darcy**

**Planes, Trains, and Psychmobiles**** by tjmack**

**www. fanfiction .net/s/7332917/1/Planes_Trains_and_Psychmoblies**

**(No spaces in the URL)**

**Thanks, you guys! Please review :D**


	17. Expect the Unexpected

_**JULIET**_

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I cried in frustration, pacing in front of my desk.

I ran the clue through my head over and over, but it had yet to make any sense to me.

"Maybe it's some sort of code?" Lassiter pondered.

"Go to the house that isn't a home, where Crockett and Tubbs live." McNab quoted thoughtfully.

The three of us sat in a circle bouncing ideas off of one another, Lassiter having recruited McNab in what can only be described as a moment of desperation. The station was in chaos around us, tech people scrambling to trace signals, bomb analysts determining how to disarm the C4 strapped to Shawn.

After a few moments a voice spoke up.

"_The Psych office…" _

Shawn's weak voice came from the speakers around me. I jumped slightly, somehow managing to forget that he was there—well, more like forgetting that we could hear him.

"What?" I questioned. "How do you figure that?"

Shawn laughed pitifully.

"_Come on, Jules. Crockett and Tubbs? Miami Vice?"_

"What does that have to do with anything?" Lassiter wondered.

"_Oh, Sassy Lassie…you know, I quite like that. Sassy Lassie."_

"I don't care if you do have a bomb strapped to you, Spencer. Call me that again and I'll shoot you in the face.

"_It's fair." _

Shawn conceded before falling silent. Somehow he managed to retain the twinkle that had take residence in his eyes. Shawn will always be Shawn.

"Shawn?" I spoke up after a few seconds, alarmed to see the effects that his concussion was still having on him.

"_Oh. Right. Anyways. I'm Crockett. Gus is Tubbs. Check the lockers in the Psych office. Duh."_

Of course Shawn would have all of the answers even when he's the victim.

Lassiter and McNab sprinted away immediately, leaving the station to grab the car.

"Thanks, Shawn. We'll be back. And don't worry, we'll find you. I promise." I told him, doing my best to smile.

I turned to leave, but Shawn's voice stopped me.

"_Wait, Jules."_

I looked at him and was heartbroken to see Shawn's underlying panic at his situation beginning to creep onto his face.

"_Just…please don't leave me alone."_

Stab me in the heart again, why don't you?

"Oh, Shawn…"

I was torn. Part of me wanted nothing more than to stay by Shawn's side and do anything I could to keep him calm and keep his mind off of everything.

But a much bigger part of me knew that we now had fewer than twelve hours to save his life. If I wanted to talk to him face to face ever again I had to chase the clues.

"Can I call Gus for you? Maybe your dad? I'm sorry, Shawn. I wish I could stay with you. Really, I do. But I've got to follow this clue. I've got to play his game."

_Shawn swallowed and nodded. "No, Jules, I get it. Go. But please, please don't call them."_

I stared at him, shocked. "What? Why not?"

"_I just…they can't…" _He cleared his throat. _"I don't want them to be here, just in case. They shouldn't have to see that…"_

I felt my heart contract painfully. Shawn _would _be concerned about everybody else at a time like this. "Shawn, I promise—"

"_Yeah, Jules. I know. Please, though, just don't call them." _

I stared him in the eye and nodded. "Okay, Shawn, I won't. I'll be back soon."

"_Bye, Jules. Be careful."_

With that I spun on my heel and strode out of the station, not looking back even once.

OooOooO

_**SHAWN**_

There are two very important reasons why I feel the intense desire to interrupt here for a brief moment.

One: It has been a ridiculously long time since Jules has let me get a word in.

Dos: I'm incredibly bored sitting here idly while Jules tells her side of the story at an excruciatingly slow pace.

And cinco: Jules is majorly amping (that's a real word, right?) up the drama, and is making me sound waaaay wimpier than I actually was.

Wait. Sorry, that was three reasons. Or was it five…

Whatever. The point is, I say nay! Nay to you, Juliet. I will not stand for this slanderous…libel-ous… attack on my manliness! It ends here.

So, my friends, here is my brilliant plan for rectifying this situation:

Every time Jules uses terms along the lines of 'confused', 'terrified', or 'in pain', substitute them with any tougher, manlier adjectives that you can think of.

For example, earlier Jules said, "I looked at him and was heartbroken to see Shawn's underlying panic at his situation beginning to creep onto his face."

You will now translate that into, "I looked at him and was heartbroken to see that, despite the horrible situation he found himself in, Shawn remained fierce and in control—an image of manliness unseen since the early days of Tom Selleck."

Get it? Just whatever words float your boat. Trust me, this way is a much more accurate interpretation of these events.

Oh, got to go! But just don't forget: tough and manly.

OooOooO

_**JULIET**_

I am so sorry about that.

I swear he's the biggest third grader I've ever met. I leave the room for two seconds…

Okay, moving on. (But, just for the record, he was absolutely _terrified _the entire time.) Where was I? Going to the Psych office, right?

Well, when Lassiter, Buzz and I arrived at the Psych office, we automatically knew we were at the right place. The Executioner made sure of that. The door was unlocked, and the space was…let's say it was _redecorated._

The walls had been spray painted with images ranging from a little bird (I'm assuming it was the Twitter logo thing) to a massive explosion. Worst of all was the image of a tombstone inscribed "Shawn Spencer; Beloved Son and Friend; 1978-2011".

Shawn's laptop was sitting open on the ground and was plugged into the television. The screen displayed The Executioner's twitter page, which updated the instant we'd cleared the office threshold.

"_Tick tock, Detectives! Shawnie now has eleven hours and fifteen minutes to live."_

Yeah. I know, right?

I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw the post, causing Lassiter, who was right behind me, to crash into my back.

"O'Hara, what the—" He exclaimed in irritation, only to cut off when he noticed what had made me stop.

"How the hell…" Lassiter muttered under his breath, automatically making to search the room for video equipment.

"Camera's over here! Buzz called from his place near the front window.

Carlton sped over to him while I made my way over to the set of lockers that looked so very out of place in the office. The first one didn't open, so I tried the rest only to find them empty. That is, other than a picture of Tubbs in one, and another with a picture of Crockett along with a neglected-looking Sociology textbook.

"No, no, no!" I groaned in frustration. Had The Executioner really led us to the Psych office for nothing?

"What?" Buzz asked me, a concerned look on his face.

"Nothing's here!" I cried, feeling myself grow angrier by the second.

"What do you mean?" Lassiter said, "Did you check all of them?"

"Yes!" My face was starting to get red hot with anger and frustration. "All of them. That is, all but this stupid one on the end that doesn't even open! Why did Shawn tell us to come here?" By this point I was shouting, and I think everyone (myself included) was shocked at the person I was choosing to focus my anger towards, "And why did he even buy these freaking, idiotic lockers when one doesn't even open?"

In my anger I lashed out, banging my fist on the side of the lockers.

I was absolutely stunned when the end locker, the one that refused to unlock, swung open.

The three of us, Buzz, Carlton and I, stood in an uncomprehending silence for about five seconds before Buzz burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

"Oh, he would," He laughed when two bewildered stares turned on him, "Shawn _so would _do that! He rigged the locker to open when you hit it!"

I couldn't help but laugh too. Buzz was right. It was just so inherently _Shawn._

"Um, okay." Lassiter commented, obviously not as entertained by the situation as Buzz and I. "Is there a riddle in it?"

I calmed my laughter and looked into the now-open locker. Indeed there was a clue, scribbled in black sharpie on the door, and it sent a terrified chill down my spine.

"_Juliet._

_I saw your eyes_

_And you made me smile_

_For a little while_

_I was falling in love_

_This will be a couples' skate. Couples only."_

"What the hell…"

**OooOooO**

**How flipping creepy is THAT? Like really, really creepy. Talk Derby to Me? Anyone?**

**I know it's been a long time, but it's nothing compared to how it has been. Plus, it's super long, right. Right?**

**I know I've said this a thousand times, but guys. Y'all are so freaking awesome I can't even believe it. No, really. 166 reviews for a story that's been in painfully slow progress for over a year? I don't deserve you guys :D**

**But we're making plot progress now! And guess what my new year's resolution is? Update faster! :D**

**P.S.—Don't worry, despite Shawn's protests, there **_**will **_**be more Henry and Gus.**


	18. What Happens When the Rules Change

"_Juliet._

_I saw your eyes_

_And you made me smile_

_For a little while_

_I was falling in love_

_This will be a couples' skate. Couples only."_

_**JULIET**_

"What the hell…"

I could feel Lassiter and Buzz's eyes locking onto me. The significance of the clue was lost on them; all they knew was that it was blatantly directed at me.

"Oh my God." I stumbled over to Shawn's desk and sat down in attempt to steady myself.

It didn't work.

Images of a case (what, four years old?) involving a certain roller-derby crime syndicate flashed before my eyes.

"O'Hara, what—" Carlton began only to be cut off by Buzz, who had begun waving his arms around wildly to get our attention.

Lassiter's mouth opened again, but Buzz motioned for us to be silent, bringing his finger to his lips before waving for us to follow him. I saw Lassiter clench his jaw in annoyance, but he played along and we both followed McNab outside and onto the sidewalk.

"What is it McNab?" Lassiter finally exploded once we had stopped moving.

"We have to be careful," Buzz explained, "Knowing this guy he's probably got the entire office bugged. Maybe even our car and our cell phones."

"And just how would he manage to pull that off?" Lassiter questioned cynically.

I thought about how The Executioner had dropped off a bleeding Gavin Sloane right in front of the police station. How he had kidnapped Shawn from right under our nose. I thought about the power being cut at the station, the entire computer system being hijacked, and the security tapes being stolen. I thought about the clue that led us here—how it incorporated an inside joke between Shawn and Gus that _I _didn't even know about. And lastly I thought about the most recent clue, the one that still had me shaking, and the ramifications involved that I didn't even want to think about.

"McNab is right, Carlton. This guy is capable of anything."

Seemingly reading my thoughts, my partner eyed me thoughtfully. He scanned over me, taking in my tone, body language, and God only knows what else Carlton Lassiter would use to analyze a person.

"What does the clue mean, O'Hara?"

I had a fleeting moment of internal conflict trying to decide what to tell him. Knowing Lassiter, he'd never let it go that Shawn and I had been on what could loosely be called a date. That is, he wouldn't as long as Shawn made it through the next ten hours and fifty-seven minutes alive.

"Do you remember that case a few years back involving the roller derby? I went under cover." Lassiter and Buzz both nodded. "Well, after that case was wrapped up I went to return my skates. Shawn was at the rink and we played around—skated for a while. The DJ played a 'couples' skate' to that song, _Space Age Love Song _by A Flock of Seagulls."

I noticed one of Lassiter's eyebrows quirk up, but, thank God, he didn't question me any further about Shawn and I 'playing around'—I was especially glad considering how I had conveniently left out the fact that it had just been the two of us at the rink.

"But that was like, four years ago!" McNab exclaimed. "How could he have possibly known about that?"

Lassiter shrugged mildly. "Well, either the Executioner's been stalking Spencer for years, or he's been doing his research for months. Either way, I don't like it. There's no telling what else he's dug up."

Suddenly I felt a cold chill run down my spine—the classic sensation of being watched. I couldn't help the involuntary shudder that wracked my body, but I resisted the urge to spin around and look behind me. I couldn't let this guy get to my head. Even if he was there silently watching, I couldn't afford to let him know that he was getting to my head. Besides, Lassiter was angled so that he could see behind me, anyways.

"So to the roller rink, then?" I suggested with more confidence than I felt.

"To the roller rink." Buzz confirmed, heading off to the car. 

Lassiter and I followed, silently exchanging a thousand words. We all clambered into the car and headed off to find the next clue.

**OooOooO**

_**SHAWN**_

And back to me! Yay!

Believe it or not, while Jules was off pretending to be Nicholas Cage I did more than just sit idly by with a bomb strapped to my chest. Yes sir, I had quite an adventure.

I'm not sure how long it was after Jules left that Mr. E returned. True, I had a nifty and conveniently placed timekeeping device at my disposal, but I was making a point not to reference it.

When he came back into my little cell he was in an unsettlingly good mood. Not that I could tell from his face—he was wearing some kind of mask—but his body language sang triumph.

Based on the few of his features I could see and register through my concussed fog, I'd have estimated that Mr. E was shockingly young: twenties to early thirties. He was pretty tall, Caucasian, and had ragged brown hair. He was lean and muscular, but not particularly physically imposing.

"I'm sorry about this, Ladies and Gents," Mr. E spoke straight into the camera that was set up on a tripod across the room, "but we're going to have to take a short break from the featured programming for technical reasons. Stay tuned!"

With that he snapped the lens shut and pushed the big, red button on the camera, temporarily cutting the link between our mystery location and the station.

"By technical issues do you happen to mean, 'I'm gonna disarm the bomb and let Shawn go'?" I suggested weakly, my chin resting lazily on my chest.

I appreciated the short break from streaming and took it as an opportunity to regain my composure. I had been trying so hard to put up a mild front as to not freak anyone at the station out.

Mr. E laughed, "Close, Shawnie. I just want to talk. Well, talk in a way that keeps things confidential—between us men. Wouldn't want any of the good folks at the SBPD finding out how the rules have changed."

"What rules?" I questioned wearily, playing along.

"Why, the rules of the Game, Shawn! This game," He indicated the air around him, "the game that we call our lives."

"You're crazy."

Mr. E began pacing. "Maybe so, Shawn, but you have to admit that I put on a good show." Getting no response he stopped moving and pushed a little further, "Detective O'Hara would think so, don't you agree?"

At the mention of Jules my eyes shot up to meet his. Something about the way he spoke made me uneasy. It was…_predatory _in a way.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

He shrugged. "Oh, I don't know, Shawn. It's just so much excitement. So much action! That must have been what she wanted, becoming a cop."

I eyed him suspiciously and I saw a flash of pearly whites through the breathing hole in his mask.

"Tell me, Shawn, does this ring any bells?" He asked, seemingly changing the subject and he whipped out some sort of smart phone.

He pushed a series of buttons and a song started playing. A disturbingly familiar song.

_I saw your eyes_

_And you made me smile_

_For a little while_

_I was falling in love_

He paused the music and looked at me in anticipation.

I was reeling. With the song came an explosion of memory. The excitement of a case involving the roller derby. The frustration of watching Jules become so wrapped up in it that she missed every hint I threw her. The fear that overcame me when I thought that she had been killed and the relief of knowing that she hadn't. The thrill of feeling the back of her hand pressed against mine…

"How…" Somehow I managed to form the single word with shocked lips.

Mr. E shrugged infuriatingly. "I have my ways."

I started shaking, whether from pain, fear, or anger I'll never know.

"What have you done to her?" I questioned him through clenched teeth.

"Oh, nothing. Yet. To be honest I can't really be held liable. You know what they say, 'Curiosity killed the cat'. So what if I give curiosity a helping hand?" He said evilly.

I lashed out, kicking feebly with my bound legs.

"If anything happens to her I swear to God I'll kill you." I told you.

To be honest, everything's a bit of a blur, but I'm pretty sure I was screaming at this point.

"Who, me? What? Never!" He exclaimed sarcastically, setting the phone he'd played the music off of on the ground beside the camera.

"Gotta go, Shawnie. I've got a friend to meet, and we wouldn't want to leave Juliet waiting, would we?"

He bounded out of the room as I unleashed a wave of profanity after him. I was shaking violently now, this time definitely out of some combination of anger and fear. In that one moment I was more deadest on killing him than I've ever been on anyone else—including Yin. I loathed the Executioner with every fiber of my being. I'd seen what he was capable of and, despite her incredible resourcefulness, I knew he could take out Juliet without breaking a sweat. She didn't stand a chance.

But there was a little glimmer of hope on the horizon. The cell phone. He'd left it on the floor. Vaguely I realized that he'd almost definitely done it on purpose, but I didn't care. I had to save Jules.

All I wanted to do was throw myself, chair and all, onto the ground and crawl to the phone, but the explosives wired to me forced me to resort to other methods. The phone was probably a good fifteen feet away. Doesn't sound like much—that is, until you're forced to scoot there on a chair without the aid of your arms or legs.

I wonder if this action should've hurt at all, considering my injuries, but at the time I was working off of pure adrenalin. After God only knows how long I made it to the phone. From there I reached a much more intricate problem: How was I supposed to dial the phone.

I've gotta say, guys, this was impressive.

As previously mentioned, hurling myself onto the ground wasn't the smartest idea. However, lowering myself to the ground? Different story.

In a fantastic display of abdominal strength I rocked the chair forward onto two legs, preventing myself from toppling completely with my forehead. Yes, my forehead. I had scooted up close enough to the wall that this was possible, and I caught myself and slowly lowered myself down to the ground.

…Okay… Maybe, just maybe I shouted, "Screw it!" And threw myself onto the ground without fully considering the ramifications. Same difference.

In a move reminiscent of my adventures with Uncle Jack and Gus, I opened hit the button to wake the screen and then dialed with my nose.

I just prayed that Juliet would answer.

**OooOooO**

_**JULIET**_

Turns out the skating rink hadn't been a skating rink since half of its star roller derby team was sent to jail for theft. It had been turned into a storage warehouse just months after I'd been there last.

"We should be there in fifteen." Lassiter announced unnecessarily, seeing as I was navigating off of my phone.

I was staring down at the screen that displayed a map of the area, my mind somehow racing and blank at the same time, when Buzz's phone rang.

"It's the station," He explained, answering the call, "McNab." About fifteen seconds of silence followed. "Okay, I'll tell them."

I turned to look at him and was filled with a sense of dread at the look on his face.

"The feed's been cut. We don't have eyes on Shawn anymore."

I had expecting so much worse, but at that moment it didn't feel like it. The worst had happened. Shawn was gone. Worst-case scenarios flew through my head and I began to panic.

"Okay." Lassiter said simply.

My head whipped around and I glared at him. I wanted to slap him for his insensitivity. Shawn was gone. Didn't he get it?

Carlton looked over to me briefly. The eye contact we made was fleeting at best, but somehow it managed to reassure me. I needed to keep my head on my shoulders.

"It doesn't mean anything." He told me.

I nodded, but I couldn't shake the feeling of dread that continued to grow within me.

OooOooO

Lassiter's prediction of fifteen minutes proved to be pretty accurate. We arrived at the huge building and proceeded to waltz straight into the building, not bothering to show our nonexistent warrant to any nonexistent staff. We were breaking the rules and we didn't care.

The inside was as massive as the outside, and I didn't have any idea where to start. I was just about to suggest that we head to the upstairs office where the DJ table used to lie when my phone rang.

"O'Hara." I answered in my usual, curt fashion.

"Jules." Shawn's voice came through the receiver.

Breathless and exhausted as it was, it had to be the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard.

"Shawn!" I cried, drawing the attention of Buzz and Carlton. "How did you—"?

"No time." He interrupted. "You have to hide. I don't know where, but you have to run. He's after you. You don't know what he's capable of. He's going to kill you—"

"Wait, hold on." I cut him off. "What are you talking about, Shawn? Where are you? How did you get a phone?"

I had so many questions and I was a little worried that Shawn was beginning to break. That the Executioner was winning.

"No time, Jules!" Shawn insisted. "You have to run!"

"Shawn—"

I broke off at the startling sound of an explosion coming from somewhere in the building. Buzz cried out in shock from beside me.

"What was that?" Shawn asked frantically in my ear, but I didn't answer.

I dropped the phone completely when I saw the orange flicker of a fledgling fire blocking our way out.

**OooOooO**

_**SHAWN**_

Every ounce of relief that I had gained hearing Juliet answer the phone vanished the second I heard the explosion.

"What was that? Jules? JULIET!" I screamed.

I heard a second explosion and the line went dead.

I felt completely numb as I lay on the ground, cradling the phone in my hands. I thought nothing, felt nothing.

Then the phone rang.

"Jules!" I cried, answering the phone.

"Good guess, Shawnie."

My heart stopped.

"Where is she? What have you done to her? WHERE IS JULIET?" I yelled into the phone, wishing I could reach across the connection and strangle the other voice.

"I have to thank you, really. To set off the bomb I had to send a signal into the building where your friends were. I didn't have little Miss Juliet's number. Sure I could've found it somehow, but it was much easier this way. Thanks a million, Shawnie."

I dropped the phone and released some sort of choked cry. This wasn't happening, it couldn't be.

Juliet was dead. And I had killed her.

**OooOooO**

**OoooH! Weren't expecting that, were you? Me neither…**

**Yeah, yeah, it's been a long time, but look! This is literally the longest chapter I've ever written! That has to count for something, right! Right? **

**Please review! Y'all are so fantastically awesome! Please keep it up! **

**Thanks! :D**

PS. Sorry if there are mistakes, it's 1 in the morning and this is too long to revise right now :/


	19. When One Door Opens Another Door Closes

_**JULIET**_

A second explosion rocked the building moments after the first—this one close enough to throw me off my feet.

Apparently Buzz has much better balance than I do, seeing as he was pulling me to my feet before I even realized that I had hit the ground.

"It's a trap!" Buzz yelled in my face, clearly panicked.

"No, McNab, I'm pretty sure this is just a coincidence!" Lassiter shouted sarcastically from a few feet away. My partner was scanning the perimeter of the quaint little corner we'd found ourselves in, trying to find a way out. I guess I just have really awful balance…

"Really? I don't know it seems like quite a coincidence for a practically abandoned warehouse to spontaneously explode while we're in it chasing a serial killer." Buzz mused.

Lassiter paused in his rotation to stare at McNab in disbelief. "You're right, McNab. It's probably a trap." He said dryly.

Buzz nodded happily and moved to join Carlton. I sprinted to the opposite side of our increasingly shrinking space to comb the perimeter for any sign of escape so that Carlton and I would meet in the middle. It was looking pretty hopeless. We were boxed in—two walls of brick lined with the occasional cardboard box, two walls of flame. All in all we probably had an area roughly the size of the Psych office between the fire and us.

The human emotion that would be expected to arise as a result of this particular situation is panic, as I'm sure you can imagine. Luckily for Lassiter and I (not so much Buzz) years of training and experience in dealing with life or death situations helped us retain some semblance of calm so that we could effectively search for a way out.

Even so, we are human. As the fire rushed towards us, the air thinned rapidly to be replaced with toxic fumes, the heat became unbearable, and I began to freak out a little.

"Lassiter," I called out, trying to keep the fear out of my voice.

"Nothing yet."

The space between my partner and I was shrinking alarmingly fast as we moved towards each other, hands running across the brick as if we'd find a soft spot that we could break through.

"Hey, guys." Vaguely I heard Buzz's voice from the other side of Lassiter, but I was too caught up in my search to pay attention.

"This wall's solid. I don't think there's anything here." I told Lassiter, keeping my voice level. He nodded in agreement but didn't speak. His brow was furrowed in concentration and his eyes were hard and focused. He was scared.

"Guys…" Buzz called out again only to meet the same response.

" Maybe there's a thin part of the fire that we can sprint through without to much damage." I suggested weakly.

By this point we were all breathing raggedly. I had pulled the collar of my shirt over my nose and mouth, pulling it down only to speak.

"GUYS!" Buzz yelled, shocking both Lassiter and I into attention.

McNab was standing in front of two short stacks of cardboard boxes, one three high and one two high, what on Earth he was looking for I have no idea. The topmost box was open and Buzz was ruffling through it.

"Look at this." He said.

I crossed over to Buzz and grabbed the items out of his hands. Instantly I could tell that they were photos, but my eyes were burning and streaming with tears so I couldn't make them out.

"What is this?" I asked him in confusion.

"Photos. They're photos of Shawn."

I blinked repeatedly, rubbed my eyes, and then took another look. Buzz was right. Every photo in my hand had Shawn in it. Shawn at the Psych office, Shawn at the smoothie shop, Shawn at the department—he must have been followed for weeks. I was horrified to realize that the entire box was packed with photo after photo. I was about to check the second box when Lassiter erupted in a fit of coughs from behind me.

"Not the time, O'Hara." He gasped out.

My partner had a fair point. The fire had spread so that it was mere feet away. We were suffocating—dying slowly from smoke inhalation. The photos didn't mean anything if we didn't get out alive.

Then Buzz began coughing violently. I turned to look at him as he steadied himself on the stack of boxes. A particularly harsh cough racked his body and he slipped, knocking the boxes over like bowling pins as he fell into them and pushing me back dangerously close to the fire.

"What the…" McNab mumbled when he saw what he had fallen into.

"Carlton!" I cried out to get my partner's attention, "Look."

With the boxes pushed away an escaped route was revealed. Part of the wall had been cut away to create a small passage that led into a different room of the warehouse.

"But why—" McNab wondered as he lifted himself off the ground.

"It doesn't matter right now, McNab, just go through the damn opening," Lassiter demanded, crossing over to us and pushing Buzz towards the hole.

Buzz went to his knees and squeezed through the tiny space.

"This area is clear!" He called.

"Now you, O'Hara." Lassiter ordered me.

"We need to get these boxes," I told him, "There could be something that'll help us find Shawn."

"There's no time, O'Hara," He said as I began pushing the boxes through the passage, "As the Head Detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department—"

"Oh for the love of God, Carlton! I'm going to do this and you can either help me or yell at me while we both burn to death!" I shouted, surprising even myself.

Lassiter looked at me coldly for a moment before he bent down and helped me. Once the boxes were through, the two of us slid through the hole. Buzz and Carlton each grabbed two boxes, I grabbed one and we ran out of the warehouse as fast as our adrenaline-charged bodies would let us.

The fresh air that hit me the second we stepped outside was…well, a breath of fresh air. There's not really any fitting metaphor for the situation, just literal statements…

Whatever, the air was nice, okay?

As soon as we had a safe distance between the warehouse and us, Lassiter, Buzz, and I dropped our boxes. All three of us were coughing, spluttering, and wiping the soot out of our eyes.

"All right, what the hell just happened?" I gasped out feeling incredibly lightheaded.

"Well, as McNab so astutely pointed out, that dirt bag led us into a trap." Lassiter spoke up after a pause. His voice didn't sound much better than mine must have.

"I know that, but it's like he wanted us to escape—" It was then that I noticed Buzz on the ground next to his box. Worried, I moved towards him. "Buzz?"

Moving was a bad idea.

The adrenaline had worn off by this point, and with the first step I felt the ground shift beneath my feet. My couple of minutes so close to the fire had taken its toll. I felt like I was burning—my throat was dry, my face was flushed, and my lungs were full of smoke. How I'd managed to get out of the warehouse at all is a mystery to me.

I heard Lassiter call out my name as my knees buckled and the ground rushed up to meet me.

_**SHAWN**_

So I'm just going to apologize upfront for the decent amount of angst coming up here. I mean, sure, this whole story has already had more angst than a Taylor Swift concert, but most of it has been on Jules's end and she's a woman and full of hormones and stuff so it's to be expected. Regardless, things are about to take a step up, so I'd prepare myself mentally if I were you.

With that out of the way I'll just continue.

There I was, lying on the concrete floor, bound to a chair with a bomb strapped to my chest, convinced without a shadow of a doubt that I had just killed the woman that I cared most about in the entire world.

You know, Nbd.

I don't even know how to describe just how awful I felt. Awful isn't even a strong enough word…Come on … Atrocious? I don't even know how to describe just how atrocious I felt. Just think about a time that you've done something you shouldn't have. Whether it was cheating on a test, cheating on a person, killing a person, lying to someone you care about, etc. Now think about that gnawing feeling of guilt. That "why did I do that?" "what was I thinking?", "how could I be so stupid?" kind of feeling. Multiply that atrocious, parasitic, empty kind of sensation by about a million.

Now that I've made everyone relive the biggest regrets of their lives, you might have some teensy tiny idea of how I felt.

I was such an idiot. I knew that he had left the phone there on purpose. I mean, come on! This freak was an absolute master of anything even slightly criminal. He wasn't about to leave his phone in a room with a hostage. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Beyond stupid. So far beyond stupid that not even can help me communicate just how stupid I was.

The guilt was eating me from the inside out. I felt empty. Who all had I just killed? Not just Jules but Lassie had to have been there as well as some innocent police officers. And what about Gus? Oh my God what if Gus was there? Or my Dad? Every one that I cared about in the world could have been dead and I would have killed them. People were so busy trying to find me—to save me—that they didn't think to protect themselves. They definitely didn't think to protect themselves from_ me_.

I lay like that for a while, wallowing in a deep sea of self-hatred. And then the tide turned.

It wasn't my fault. I didn't set a bomb. It was The Executioner, he did this. The blood of the people I love may have been on my hands, but only because The Executioner shook hands with me.

Wow. I'm really nailing the metaphorical imagery today, aren't I? First the whole sea and tide thing, now the blood on hands thing? I'm on fire.

Anyways, I felt a boiling hatred rising up in me. Obviously I already hated the SOB, what with the whole savagely kidnapping, viciously beating, and mercilessly bomb strapping me thing. But this? This was different. This was hatred like I've never known. I mean, Yin strapping my mom and Yang almost murdering my best friend right in front of me came close. But 'almost' is the key term here. This wasn't 'almost'. This was real, this was happening.

All of the sudden I just didn't care. I didn't care that I had a bomb on me, I didn't care that I had under ten hours to live, and I didn't care about finding a way out. All I cared about was bringing The Executioner down, even if it meant going down with him.

**OooOooO**

**Well, here it is. I'm really, really not sure how I feel about this chapter :/ Feedback? **

**Never fear, friends! The next chappie brings in Henry **

**You are all fantastic people. Really just amazing :D Please continue reviewing! Thanks!**


	20. Emotional Filters

**You are all glorious, beautiful, wonderful people. Thank you so much for still reading :D**

**OooOooO**

_**SHAWN**_

While I'm confident that most of you are completely absorbed in my captivating story, I'll bet some of you are asking yourselves, "Where's Henry and Gus? Don't they care that this wonderful deity of a man is captured and being savagely tortured?"

That is a word, right? Deity?

Anyhoo, I myself am wondering why those two rascals have yet to make an appearance. It's almost as if I forgot about them! Hahaha…

In all fairness, I had no clue whether or not my dad and Gus were even alive at this point. Mr. E had turned off the screen that was hooked up to security cameras in the station, effectively cutting off my only connection to the outside world. He had left my angsty, vengeful self to rot in the dark—both literally and figuratively. Well…the 'dark' part. Not so much the 'rot' part. The always eco-friendly Mr. E had turned off the lights when he had left. The little red 'recording' light of the camera pointing at me was all there was to illuminate the room.

So long story short (or maybe I should say 'short story long'…) I had and have no clue what Gus and mi padre were up to. I'm sure they've told me but let's be honest; I wouldn't have even kind of paid attention. I could of course make everything up like I did last time, but Jules is right here and she's so lovely. Plus, she's been kind of slacking off on the story telling lately and I need a break.

_**JULIET**_

Well, luckily for everyone, Gus and Henry are just about to make their grand entrance on my side of the story.

We left off with my not-so-graceful descent into unconsciousness after the fire. It goes without saying that the next thing I remembered was waking up in the hospital. What isn't so obvious is the fact that I had woken up before and forgotten about it.

As it turns out, smoke inhalation isn't taken lightly in the medical world. Buzz, Carlton, and I had all shown signs of carbon monoxide poisoning, so we all had to undergo bronchoscopies. Basically the doctors stuck a tube down my throat to clear out my airway.

The Executioner had laid the perfect trap. He had somehow filled the side room of the warehouse that we were in with carbon monoxide (he probably used cars or stoves). We were being slowly poisoned before the fire even started. And then he flipped his magic switch and the place lit up like a Christmas tree—the icing on the cake. We didn't stand a chance.

Had he just set the place on fire, chances were that we would have either recovered quickly enough to continue the search almost immediately, or we would have been killed or injured so badly that we would be incapacitated until after it was too late to save Shawn. The Executioner's plan was the perfect middle ground: he made it so that we were sure to be injured while still having an escape route. We were able to get back to work with time still on the clock, but we had burned five hours.

That's right. FIVE HOURS passed between me passing out and me waking up in the hospital. Shawn had that same length of time left before the bomb went off.

However, for fear of being cliché, I wasn't even thinking about that when I woke up. I was almost positive that the whole thing had been a dream. Can you blame me? Think back over every thing we've told you so far. Can you seriously say to my face (figuratively, of course) that the whole thing doesn't seem like some horrifying nightmare? I absolutely thought it was at first. I figured I must have been injured on the job and dreamt the whole thing up under the influence of whatever drugs I was on.

It wasn't until I saw Gus instead of Shawn sitting at my bedside that it occurred to me that the whole thing might be real.

The first words out of my mouth were "Where's Shawn?" I was praying that Gus would tell me that he'd gone to get coffee or something.

But when my friend looked up I knew that wouldn't be the case.

If there is anyone in the world that I can read like a book it is Burton Guster. It's not like I know him all that well; he just completely lacks an emotional filter. I have a working theory that Shawn stole his and that's why he's nearly impossible to read. Within a split second of making eye contact with Gus I could sense his fear, anger, and anxiety that could only mean one thing: Shawn was in trouble.

"Don't you remember?" He asked me, clearly worried that I was suffering from some sort of short-term memory loss.

"What time is it? How long has it been?" I answered him in a roundabout way, sitting up in my bed.

"It's been almost five hours." Gus replied, doing his best to keep his voice even. He obviously understood the repercussions of that fact just as well as I did.

If my panic didn't show on my face, my heart rate monitor made it blatantly evident. The beeping sped up so much that Gus stood up to get a doctor.

"Wait, Gus!" He obliged, returning to his seat beside me, "Where's Carlton? And Buzz?"

"They're both fine," Gus told me to my relief, "They headed back to the station about fifteen minutes ago to go over the things you guys found at that warehouse. They woke up nearly an hour ago—the carbon monoxide most likely affected you more because you're so much smaller than they are."

I nodded, taking everything in.

"Okay, Gus, I need you to help me out. I need to get out of here. I need to get out of here right now."

OooOooO

Within ten minutes Gus was driving me back to the station. He told me about how Henry had been called when the three of us were admitted into the hospital, and how Henry had then called him. After his short story we rode in silence. I was completely exhausted from the bronchoscopy, but the fear that I would nod off only to wake up and find out that Shawn was dead kept me awake. I could sleep all I wanted in five hours.

We pulled up to the station and I started to climb out of the car only to be stopped by Gus's had on my arm.

"There's something else you should know, Juliet." He said, eyes filled with sadness.

"What?" I nudged him when he seemed hesitant to elaborate.

"Shawn thinks you're dead." Gus told me.

"What?! Why on Earth would he think that?" I cried.

Gus shrugged. "I wasn't there. This happened before I even knew Shawn had been kidnapped. One of the tech guys said that he heard The Executioner telling Shawn that his call to you had triggered the explosion in the warehouse and you didn't escape."

"Hold on, so Shawn thinks he killed me?"

I felt yet another wave of anger building inside of me. As if the physical abuse wasn't enough, The Executioner had to torture Shawn mentally as well? I couldn't even imagine how I would feel if our places were reversed. I found myself panicking. What if Shawn died thinking that he had killed me? Spurred into action, I jumped out of the car.

When I walked into the station the first thing that caught my attention was the last thing that I wanted to see: Shawn. The live footage of him was still being broadcasted over every screen within sight. He looked absolutely miserable. The image looked like it was being filmed in night-vision, but I could still make out the tear tracks on his face. He was toppled over on the ground, still tied to the chair. He was fidgeting, twisting and turning in his seat as if trying to achieve something. Before I could determine Shawn's goal Lassiter came up to me excitedly, drawing my attention from the screens.

"Everyone's been going over the contents of the boxes for hours," He wasted no time with small talk. "Every single one is filled with photos of Shawn. Hundred of photos dating back to 2007."

The now familiar tingling sensation crept down my spine. This guy had been stalking Shawn for five years?

"Well have you figured anything out?"

Lassiter smiled at me proudly. "It's a message."

**OooOooO**

**Yeah, so, I really don't like this. It just doesn't click, you know? Usually I would wait a bit and rewrite it, but I'm SUPER busy. Yes, I'm headed down that glorious road of college visits, essays, and emotional breakdowns. The wonders of senior year :/**

**If anyone has words of wisdom to help get me back on track, please share. Also nice words would be appreciated. Just please review! It means so much to me and I could use some inspiration right now!**


	21. Cracking the Code

_**JULIET**_

I followed Lassiter into a conference room, beyond confused. How on Earth could there be a message? The box just had photos, didn't it? And maybe more pressingly, how did Carlton figure it out? Don't get me wrong, Carlton is brilliant, just…in his own way… He's more _investigative_ smart. Codes and cyphers and other…_intellectual_ pursuits...aren't exactly his strong suit.

"Some other officers went through the boxes while we were in the hospital," Lassiter told me. "They found something interesting."

Photos were strewn across the table in the center of the room, each one picturing Shawn in the midst of some case we had worked on in the past. True to my partner's word, there was one small, unexpected catch about the photos.

"They're all the same!" I exclaimed in surprise, "There can't be more than fifteen different photos."

"Thirteen, actually," McNab corrected me from his seat in front of the table, "But there's like, a hundred copies of each."

"But why? He has to have thousands of pictures of Shawn if he's been following him for five years." I mused, leaning over the table and studying the photos closely.

One copy of each was placed in a line across the table. I was disturbed to find that I myself was in several of them.

Lassiter sighed and rolled his eyes. "Haven't you been paying attention, O'Hara? It's a message! A clue!"

"Oh, yeah?" I asked, slightly annoyed at my partner's condescension, "And what exactly does this clue say?"

"What, am I supposed to do all the work?" Carlton jumped to defend himself, "We haven't been here that long!"

McNab was quick to diffuse the growing tension. "We put the photos in order by date," He interjected.

"They all have time stamps printed on the bottom right corner," Lassiter elaborated. "Look at them."

Sure enough, when I looked closely at the photo nearest to me I saw that the date and time that the photo was taken was printed across the bottom. _8/14/2009 16:11._

"Why is the 14 circled?" I wondered, indicating the bold red line drawn around the digits.

"We're not sure," Carlton told me, "but there are numbers circled on every time stamp. McNab and I were talking before you showed up, and we think that the numbers line up to make out a message."

"I guess there's only one way to find out." I said, heading towards the door.

"Where are you going?" Buzz called after me.

"To get a pencil and paper from my desk," I responded, "I have a feeling we'll need it."

OooOooO

We went through the photos and wrote down the highlighted number on each one.

First was one of Shawn at the racetrack. He was wearing that God-awful Hawaiian shirt. _8/10/2007. _The 10 was circled.

Next was a long-range photo of Shawn at the Monarch Lodge. _2/1/2008. _The circle encompassed the 2 and 1 to make 21.

Then there was Shawn and Gus at that bank from when they were taken hostage. Then at that sea lion's funeral. Much to Lassiter's disdain, there was a photo taken from in front of his own house, taken around the time that he was suspected of murdering Ernesto Chavez. There was a photo of Shawn in his Thunderbirds uniform, Shawn, Gus, and I at Camp Tikihama, and Shawn and Gus in the woods searching for that billionaire. There were even photos with Boone and Peters, my dad, those hippies from that weird, outdoor-community place, and Gus's old friends from Blackapella (from both times they showed up).

The time stamps on the aforementioned photos were as follows:

_9/__**12**_/_08_

_1/__**9**__/09_

_**1**__/16/09_

_**1/3**__0/09_

_2/1__**3**__/09_

_8/1__**4**__/09_

_9/2__**5**__/09_

_8/__**28**__/10_

_1__**1/3**__0/11_

_12/7/11 09:__**15**_

_3/21/12 __**20**__:__**20**_

So basically we ended up with the following:

10 21 12 9 1 1 18 13 15 20 20

Okay, I know that that was boring rant about descriptions and numbers (Believe me, I know. Shawn is whining incessantly about it.) but there's a point, I swear. Just bear with me.

It didn't take long and it wasn't particularly difficult to come up with all of that, but now Lassiter, Buzz, and I had a bunch of meaningless numbers in front of us.

"Okay…so what now?" I spoke the words that were on all of our minds.

It was one thing to say that The Executioner had handed us a code on a silver platter, but actually cracking said code? That was a a different matter completely.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, each of us pondering the mystery in front of us.

To my surprise, McNab was the one to find a solution.

"You know what?" He mumbled almost incoherently, grabbing the paper and pencil from me.

He flipped the paper over and began writing out a chart.

"McNab, what-" Lassiter started, only to be cut off by a very focused Buzz.

"I saw this on TV once. Just give me a second."

McNab was uncharacteristically serious. His eyebrows were furrowed and his tongue was poking out between his teeth. I feel like the mere fact that he interrupted Lassiter-something he would normally be absolutely terrified of doing-speaks volumes.

"Okay, here." He declared after a minute, pushing the completed chart over to my partner and I.

His proposed solution was simple-almost laughably easy. The chart had two rows, the alphabet in one, and the numbers one through twenty-six right underneath. Each letter lined up with it's corresponding number (A to one, B to two, etc…).

"Really, McNab?" Carlton scoffed, "We're dealing with a highly sophisticated criminal here. He has murdered several people and shot a wanted criminal before dropping him off in front of this very station. He snuck in here, cut the power, hijacked our entire electronic system, and then erased the security footage-effectively destroying all evidence of who he is. Not to mention the fact that he managed to kidnap Spencer (not that that's saying a lot) and set a trap that caught all three of us trained enforcers of the law unawares. Do you honestly believe that a man like that would use a code that could be cracked by an elementary schooler?"

Buzz, for his part, looked thoroughly embarrassed. His face was red and his head was down as he mumbled a feeble, "Yeah, you're probably right."

I, however, was not totally convinced. There was no arguing that The Executioner was good-really good. But he was practically handing us these clues. He had given us thirteen photos when he could have given us thousands to shift through, the date stamps made it easy to put the photos in order, and the numbers we needed were circled. Why would he start making it complicated?

With that thought in mind, I had grabbed the paper from the center of the table and started decoding the numbers according to McNab's key. I couldn't believe what came out.

"Carlton?"

"One minute, O'Hara. Seriously, McNab, you really need to start reevaluating your career choice-"

"Carlton."

"-if you can't force yourself to think outside of the box you're never going to survive-"

"Carlton!"

"Instead of spending your Friday nights wrapped up in your snuggie watching Soap Operas and eating cookie dough, how about focusing on-"

"CARLTON!" I finally yelled, capturing my partner's attention.

"What?!" Lassiter yelled back, affronted. "Good Lord, O'Hara. I was just giving the kid some friendly advice. I would think that you of all people-"

"Buzz was right, Carlton," I told him. "Look."

Lassiter shot me an exasperated glance before looking at the paper. I saw his face transform to reflect the shock that I was feeling.

_JULIA MCDERMOTT _

**OooOooO**

**Dun dun dun! Major twist (I in no way blame you if you've forgotten who Julia McDermott is. Check chapter 12)**

**I know that this is taking pathetically long, but please don't hate me! I'm doing the best I can, I promise! **

**I would really appreciate it if you would visit my profile and respond to a poll concerning my next story. I really need feedback, and so far a grand total of one people have responded!**

**As always, reviews are greatly appreciated! I would love to know what you think! (Other than the fact that I need to update more often, but hey. Beggars can't be choosers, right?) I'm a bit worried that this chappie was boring :/**

**PLEASE REVIEW!**

**Thank you for being the most wonderful people in the world!**

**Side note, this code thing took me forever. Those are all real episodes, and the time stamps are the actual air-dates. Obviously I ran out of episodes for the last two, which is why I had to use the times...**


	22. An Almost Foolproof Plan

**Just a real quick note. I've had quite a few people message me in the past couple of months and point out the similarities between this story and the whole Hashtag killer scenario from last season. Now, I'm not even sort of trying to suggest that Psych copied me (I really don't think they did) but, reflecting my pathetically slow updates, this story was published a good two years before the Hashtag killer. We just have ourselves a creepy coincidence! **

**OooOooO**

_**SHAWN**_

Yeah, okay, so, Jules has been talking for wayyy too long. I mean, I know what I said about needing a break, but this is getting out of control. I'm telling you man, it's a girl thing. They just talk and talk and _talk. _

Besides, my side of the story is much more interesting. Granted, the whole scavenger hunt thing is pretty cool, and I know that Jules just threw this big curve ball your way, but guys, come on! Let me just remind you, I was on the ground of some dank prison with a bomb strapped to me, plotting a swift and merciless vengeance. You can't beat that.

Anyways, I suppose you're wondering what said vengeance consisted of? I can hardly blame you. It was pretty legit.

Earlier, Jules so cleverly hinted at the way I was fidgeting around in my chair. Believe it or not, that was not Jules just demonstrating her characteristic long-windedness. No my friends, that was a deliberate reference to the fact that I was working one of my wrists out of the bindings that held me to the chair.

Let me just clarify something. The bindings may have just been rope, but it was very strong rope and I am cursed with abnormally large wrists (thanks for that, papa bear). Trying to force my massive wrist through such a miniscule opening was vaguely similar to giving birth, only backwards.

Okay, scratch that. It was nothing like that.

The point is it hurt, okay? In order to free my wrist I had to dislocate it, which kind of sucked. I mean, compared to the blinding headache and handful of shattered ribs, the pain was comparable to being punched in the face by Gus or running into a door at half a mile per hour. That being said, I think it's fair to say that I was having a bad enough day already, don't you?

So after a few minutes I freed my left wrist. I then proceeded to untie my other bindings. Let me just say, untying my right wrist with my dislocated left wrist? Not fun.

All in all this process took maybe half an hour. Well, I say that, but in reality it could have been anywhere from ten minutes to over an hour. I'm not the best with time and, like I said earlier, I wasn't too interested in looking at the timer on the massive bomb strapped to me to find out exactly how much of my life had drained away while I was struggling.

So I was freed from the chair, but I was still locked in some basement with a bomb and a whole host of serious injuries. My situation had gone from pathetically hopeless to slightly less pathetically hopeless. Yay! But I had a plan. A stupid plan, but hey. That tends to work for me.

Now before I tell you what my plan was, please try to understand my state of mind at this point in time. Left on my own to think, I had convinced myself that every person in my life that I cared about was dead, and that it was my fault. That's a lot for one guy to handle, even a guy with fantastic hair and cheekbones worthy of an Egyptian god. I was beyond desperate and, frankly, the only thing I really cared about was getting revenge on Mr. E. My own safety wasn't so much as an afterthought when coming up with this plan. I warned you about the angst factor, remember?

All right, so keep all that in mind, okay?

Step one was to get up on my feet. Step one was not very fun. I did not like step one. Have you ever tried standing up with a bunch of broken ribs? They jostle around and stuff. I had to crawl over to the nearest wall in order to stand, which wasn't big on dignity.

Step two was to find something sharp—a nail or maybe a screwdriver. I wasn't really expecting to find much. Mr. E was too smart to leave me in a room alone with anything that I could turn into a weapon. Luckily for me, however, he underestimated my lightning fast wit and boundless resourcefulness. Next to the camera (which I didn't really realize was still recording me, by the way) was a camera bag with a broken tripod. The long metal piece that juts out to the side that you use to aim the camera had snapped off (along with two of the legs. I do not want to know what he was doing when that happened…) in such a way that a section of metal was decently pointy. It was a bit shorter than my arm and hard to maneuver, but it worked.

Step three was to somehow manage to drag myself over to the door. I pulled the chair I had previously been bound to along with me. I had watched enough TV to know that I really needed to be more careful with my broken ribs and should probably sit down. One wrong move could lead to a punctured lung, and then I'd be really screwed. I'll spare you the details of my long and painful journey. Just know that it sucked.

So there I was, post steps one through three, sitting in a chair that was next to the opening of the only door leading into my little cell, gripping my makeshift weapon and waiting to commence step four.

What was step four, you ask?

Step four was to wait until Mr. E got back. Then I would grab him and use my weapon to strike at the water gel explosives on my chest, blowing us both straight to Hell.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

**OooOooO**

**Well things took another dramatic turn! Hope that's cool with you guys. Have no fear, there's more Shawn whump to come!**

**I was going to make this chapter twice as long (add in a Juliet POV section), but if I did it would be at least another two days. I figured y'all would prefer it this way. **

**It shouldn't be too long until the next chapter. I know I always say that, but this time I honestly mean it. I finally finished "Cheaters Never Prosper but Neither do Idiots", and certain aspects of my life are sort of slowing down, so I have more free time. I am genuinely sorry that it's taking so long, and I really appreciate those of you who are sticking with it!**

**PLEASE REVIEW! I hate to sound cheap, but reviews honestly inspire me to write! It's really hard to get motivated when you feel like no one likes what you're doing! Constructive criticism is always appreciated! Thank you :D**


	23. Complications

**I've been meaning to change this cover photo FOREVER! Shout out to the amazing Jesse Wales of psychfic who designed it!**

_**JULIET**_

Julia McDermott. Just as a recap for some of you, Julia is the girl that Carlton and I found sneaking outside of Gavin Sloane's house in the middle of the night. She claimed to be Gavin's girlfriend, that he was really just a partial-psychopath, and that she only wanted to be sure he was okay.

"What the hell is this guy playing at?" My partner exclaimed as soon as we had decoded the name. "Does he seriously expect us to believe that this kid is a part of his sick game? She's just a teenager!"

"So is Gavin Sloane," Buzz pointed out.

"When you think about it, she _was_ a little bit suspicious," I remarked, thinking back on my encounter with the girl.

"Oh come on, O'Hara! This whack job is just pulling our chain. I mean sure, it's a little bit hard to swallow that a girl like her would settle for dating a psychopath, but that doesn't mean she's an accessory to murder."

"That's not what I mean," I told him. "Doesn't it seem strange that Julia chose to try and see Gavin in the dead of night? Why not just wait until morning. For that matter, why did she even go to the Sloane's house in the first place? He was in the hospital by that point."

I could see Carlton begin to consider the possibility that Julia was involved, so I pushed a bit farther.

"Plus, she did seem to know a whole lot about Gavin's motivation behind the murders. Remember? She kept saying 'He didn't mean it' or 'it was an accident' or 'it wasn't his fault'. Thinking back, it seems like she knew that he was the killer before we did. Like he had told her about them or something."

"Okay, maybe I see your point," Lassiter spoke after a few moments of quiet thinking. "McNab, go and pick her up. O'Hara, let's comb over these photos and see if we can ascertain how The Executioner got his hands on them. I'm not totally convinced that he's been legitimately following Spencer for five years. He'd have killed himself by now if that were true."

Buzz and I exchanged a glance of exasperation but did as we were told. These moments when Lassiter goes all commando don't tend to be the best to point out his insensitivity.

I settled in at the conference room table, making sure to take a seat so that I could see the massive screen at the front of the station. I had to be able to see Shawn. Don't get me wrong; it's not that I wanted to see him. Not in that state, at least. Every second I saw Shawn in that room tore at my heart a little bit. I just felt like I _needed _to see him. I had been avoiding watching for so long it had started to feel like I had abandoned him. I don't know, maybe it doesn't make any sense. In all fairness, though, nothing about the whole situation really made sense.

So anyways, I started to go through the photos, glancing up every once in a while to see how Shawn was doing. It didn't take me long to form a hypothesis concerning the photos, and my theory was even more chilling than the prospect of The Executioner stalking Shawn for five years.

"I think Shawn was being followed by more than one person." I told my partner after a while.

"What?" Lassiter asked me in shock, his attention torn away from the photos in his hands.

"Just think about it. Camp Tikihama, your house, Shabby's funeral—if there was one guy following Shawn then one of us would have noticed him. Shawn would have. These locations are small and isolated and it would be almost impossible to hide. And they aren't press photos either—just look at the picture quality. I hate to say it, but I even think there's a chance that there's a cop involved."

Carlton thought about what I had said for a bit. I could tell he was reluctant, but even he had to admit that my logic was sound.

While Lassiter was lost in thought, I took an opportunity to look up at Shawn. I couldn't believe what I saw.

I must have been studying the photos for a long time. Since the last time I had looked up, Shawn had freed himself of his hand ties and was now painfully forcing himself into a standing position.

"Oh God, Shawn. What are you doing now?" I mumbled under my breath.

"What the hell…" Lassiter exclaimed, my words obviously pulling his attention to the screen.

I wasn't sure exactly what Shawn was doing, but I had a bad feeling about it. He wasn't in the greatest state of mind, and he definitely wasn't in shape physically to be making an escape.

"He's going to get himself killed." Carlton commented as we watched Shawn grab what looked like a broken piece of a tripod.

I found myself entranced by the video feed. I was hardly breathing; somehow I just _knew _that he was up to something inherently…_Shawn-like._

Shawn pulled a chair right up to the opening of the door and sat down. Then I saw him glance from the metal pole to the bomb and take a deep breath.

"Oh my God." The words were forced from my throat as I realized what Shawn was planning to do.

Carlton was a half second behind me.

"Holy mother of justice. Is Spencer really about to blow himself up?"

I felt the anxiety building up in me like a physical force. Unable to sit still, I jumped up and began pacing, all the while muttering "Oh my God, oh my God" under my breath.

This couldn't be happening. This wasn't real—it couldn't be. We had a chance, albeit a slim one, to save Shawn, and The Executioner's awful head game was going to take that away. Shawn thought I was dead. No—he thought he had _killed _me. Maybe it was a bit vain to jump to the conclusion that that knowledge was his main motivation, but it seemed like a safe bet.

But what Shawn was doing wasn't just a hopeless suicide. It was methodical and patient. He was waiting for something. Or someone.

"He's going to take The Executioner down with him." I realized aloud.

Just as I had this terrible epiphany the door to Shawn's room began to open.

OooOooO

_**SHAWN**_

I didn't have to wait long for Mr. E to come back. That probably should have been my first clue that something was up, but I wasn't exactly in the greatest state of mind ever. Like, I mean, on a scale of one to ten, one being 'I'm out of control and think I'm going to fall of the deep end and kill people and stuff' and ten being 'I'm literally vomiting rainbows right now', I was like a one point five. Tops.

Anyhoo, as soon as the door opened, Mr. E's hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, effectively stopping me from striking the bomb. The rest of his body followed shortly after, including his other hand, which promptly clocked me in the face.

I know, right? Great for the concussion.

The shock caused me to drop the fragment of the tripod, and a second hit had my legs wobbling beneath me.

"Do you seriously think I can't watch this video feed and see what you're doing?" Mr. E snarled, gesturing to the camera across the room. "Come on, Shawnee. You're better than that."

This new, unmitigated (Gus got me word of the day toilet paper! Cool, right!) anger coming from Mr. E was admittedly vaguely terrifying. His eyes looked black and evil as he landed one final punch to my side, careful to avoid the explosives.

I fell, hitting the ground hard, and immediately felt a sharp, excruciating pain in my chest. I'm talking blindingly painful. I suddenly couldn't breathe. All the air was forced from my lungs and I couldn't seem to get it back. I was gasping, hacking and coughing. I honestly felt like I was dying.

'Oh crap' I remember thinking. 'So this is what a collapsed lung feels like'.

_**JULIET**_

It's hard for me to put into words the horror I felt as I watched this scene unfold. I was almost relieved for a second when The Executioner stopped Shawn from detonating the bomb. But then he was hitting him. I could hear the resounding smack as the man's fists contacted Shawn's face.

And then one of the worst things that could possibly happen happened. The Executioner struck Shawn in his broken ribs. Shawn fell, gasping for breath. I didn't have to be a doctor to know that one of his ribs had shifted and punctured a lung.

In an instant I realized that, even without the bomb, Shawn was in trouble. Big trouble.

"We need to get Julia McDermott in here right now."

**OooOooO**

**Anyone know what the 'word of the day toilet paper' thing is a reference to? I know someone does!**

**Please review, guys! We hit a bit of a lull last chapter, but I can't say I didn't deserve it. But look at me now! It's only been like two weeks! Progress!**

**Seriously, though, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE REVIEW! Thanks so much! :D**


	24. Remembering

**First off, shout out to ****tjmack**** and ****ccluvshorses101**** for catching the **_**Friends **_**reference in the last chapter!**

**Second of all, you guys will be glad to know that I am almost finished with AP testing, so I will (most likely) go back to updating regularly. By 'go back' I mean go back to the good old days with my first story, **_**At Least I'm Not Bored. **_**Anyone who has stuck with this story is truly amazing. I appreciate your patience more than I can say :D**

**OooOooO**

_**SHAWN**_

I honestly don't know how to explain the pain. It was unreal—and it wasn't just my chest. It felt sort of like someone had scooped out all of my bones and internal organs and whatnot, put it all in a blender for a bit, and then dumped everything back into my body to slosh around. How's that for a visual image? I'm not sure whether it's really deep and descriptive or just Tom and Jerry esque…

As I lay on the cold floor of my cell I was vaguely aware that Mr. E's was talking, but there was a roaring in my ears that made it impossible to make out his words. I realized that I needed to pull myself together, so I tried pulling a Carey Elwes from _The_ _Princess Bride_. You know, where he's being tortured but escapes the pain by picturing Buttercup (his bonnie lass) really vividly? It couldn't be all that hard. Plus, if there was anyone who could create a visual image so clear it could pass for reality it was me.

Unsurprisingly, I was right. I could create a perfect picture in my head—so real it may as well have been right in front of me. But I never got far enough to figure out if it could really take my mind away from the pain. You see, there was one fatal flaw to my plan that I had somehow managed to overlook. Who do you think mybonnie lass was? That's right, the one and only Detective Juliet O'Hara. Without even thinking about it, I closed my eyes and pictured Jules.

It happened to be the one image capable of causing me more pain than I was already in.

Yes, my friends, the angst is not quite over yet.

You're going to start noticing (if you haven't already) some inconsistency in my state of mind throughout this ordeal. That's not a result of me embellishing or forgetting some of the details. Okay, it's not _just _a result of that. My emotions were seriously all over the place. I know that my narration is cool, calm and collected, but at this point in time, I wasn't exactly stable.

For instance, just a little while ago I was talking about how the guilt had been replaced by deep, burning hatred for Mr. E. Well, now the guilt was back. Back like Robert Downey Jr. after all that stuff with drugs. I mean, I still hated Mr. E more than I've ever hated anyone in my life; it was just that now I hated myself, too.

Sweet Baby J. I'm really going to have to watch some Bueller or something as soon as this is over. It's getting depressing.

So anyways, the guilt was climbing, there was fear and hatred and angst, etcetera, etcetera. I'm getting to something significant. Pinky promise, just hang with me.

This may come as a shock to you, but all said emotions—and the resulting psychological stress—weren't exactly ideal under my physical circumstances.

That's just a Gus way of saying that I sort of started to freak out.

I panicked, and can you blame me? To be honest that's a bit of an understatement. I wasn't just panicking; I was having a full-fledged panic attack. My heart was pounding out of control, my head was screaming, and the pain in my chest actually managed to increase. And might I say, cracked ribs and a punctured lung are wonderful when paired with hyperventilation.

For our irony-impaired readers, that was sarcasm.

My breaths were coming out in short gasps. I was choking—suffocating slowly as black dots swam before my eyes. The more struggled, the more I panicked, which just made me cough harder. Talk about a vicious cycle. Fortunately I had the presence of mind to see just how self-destructive I was being.

But I couldn't stop what was happing purely by using this little tidbit of information. I couldn't just will myself to be okay, but there was one thing I could do. Something I always could, and always will be able to do no matter how hard anyone tries to stop me: I could think.

Now I don't mean this in an arrogant way at all, but I'm kind of a genius. In my own way, of course, but still, I can be very dangerous once I start thinking. Once I start _remembering. _

I hate to say this (seriously, it's killing me) but this was a situation where my old man's psycho hat game came in handy. The beauty of the hat game wasn't that it made me pay attention to what people had on their heads, but that it was practice in remembering things that I didn't consciously notice in the first place. I learned to focus in a way so that I could visualize a scene in its entirety—every minute detail in place. I'll admit I had some natural ability on my side, but it's still pretty impressive.

So long story short, I managed to redirect my attention and calm myself down slightly by going into cop-mode.

Here we go. (And I apologize in advance for how much like my father I'm about to sound.)

I closed my eyes and thought back over the past week or so. I took the crime scenes and played them through my head like a high definition DVD, searching for anything at all that could help me.

Jules had changed her lip-gloss to a slightly pinker shade the Thursday before. Lassie wore the same shirt three times in a week (I could tell because the third button from the top was a slightly different color from the rest, as though it had been replaced at some point). The fourth victim had a stick of Trident gum sticking out of his pocket. The third and sixth victims had the same style of tennis shoe.

All useless. Except maybe the lip-gloss thing. Mentioning that I had noticed might earn me brownie points with Jules later. I could've gone on like that forever—scrounging up tiny little details that I had neglected earlier. I needed to narrow my search. I just _knew_ that I was missing something.

It occurred to me that Mr. E was playing a game with me, too. And why shouldn't he? It was pretty obvious that he planned to kill me. What did it matter if I figured out who he was? He was giving me clues; I just needed to recognize them.

With that thought in mind I shifted my thoughts over to Mr. E. The man was dressed in full black—black dress shoes, black jeans, a black sweater and a black mask. So the clothes told me little, except that maybe Mr. E was going through a bit of a Goth phase. The one stand out in his ensemble was a fancy watch that rested on his wrist. I hadn't paid much attention to it at first, but I realized that it might be my only real clue as to Mr. E's identity. The watch was a Rolex. It was stainless steel with a white face and the word 'Daytona' written in small, red font, right in the middle.

I knew that watch. I had seen it before. One day I had caught Gus browsing high-end watches on Amazon online (he likes to pretend that he can actually afford that kid of stuff. First it was diamond tie pins, then watches, and last I checked he was obsessing over silk bow ties). Assuming that I was right and this was the same type of watch, (and let's be real, of course I was right) Mr. E had dropped something in the low five digits on it. True, he could have stolen it, but that just didn't seem his style. No, our friend The Executioner had bought the watch himself, and he was seriously loaded. I remember telling Gus that I could buy like, 150 pair of Kangaroos for the price of one stupid watch.

But I had seen the watch somewhere else, too, somewhere more important…

There was a memory forming at the back of my mind but I just couldn't access it. Not yet, anyway. I tried to remember but felt my focus slipping, so I tried a different angle.

His eyes. That was the only of Mr. E's features that I could work with. They were a dark, harsh brown. Even as I thought I could feel them on me, glaring, following me. In that moment I accurately predicted that, were I to make it out alive, I'd feel those eyes boring into me for a long time to come.

There was some significance to those eyes that I had yet to grasp. I could feel another memory tugging at me, different from but related to the first, somehow. Just as frustration threatened to overcome me, I realized something.

His eyes were expressionless.

This man had threatened me, tortured me, and strapped me with a bomb, but his eyes never betrayed anything but his cold and calculating nature. There was no sadness there, no regret, no fear—not even anger or hate. Just complete and total apathy. Somehow that was much more terrifying.

His watch. His eyes…

And suddenly my memories shot forward and collided, hitting me like a physical force.

I knew who The Executioner was.

**OooOooO**

**Who do you think he is? I wouldn't be surprised if some of you guess. I'm hoping that it's at least somewhat of a shock, but it's not **_**completely **_**out of left field. **

**I feel like I have to apologize. Hopefully this is just me, but I definitely feel like this story has gone down hill. I'm having a hard time trying to communicate what is essentially a dramatic story while still keeping it in character. Feedback would be so, so appreciated! Please let me know what you like and what I can work on for the remaining chapters! **

**Y'all are fantastic! Thanks so much! **


	25. Revelations

_**JULIET**_

Sorry to leave you all hanging like that but, according to Shawn, it's 'absolutely necessary in order to maintain the dramatic integrity of the story'. I'm not really sure what he means by that (nor am I sure that _he _knows what he means by that) but he's refusing to continue until it is 'the opportune moment' to make his reveal.

To be honest I think he's been watching _Pirates of the Caribbean _too much lately and thinks he's being clever like Jack Sparrow.

I really don't know how long he can hold off, actually, because for once we weren't all that far behind him. That's to say that I figured out who The Executioner was remarkably quickly. I would've figured it out quicker, too, if I hadn't been interrupted.

"I heard you've taken a suspect in for questioning. Where is he? Tell me, tell me right now. I swear when I get my hands on that son of a—"

Henry Spencer came charging up to Lassiter and I, a fire in his eyes unlike anything I'd seen before. We were standing just outside of the interrogation rooms—blessedly far away from any viewing screens that were still streaming Shawn's painful battle to draw air—but Henry would have passed the image of his son on his way in. That alone would be enough to push any man over the edge.

I had no idea where the man had been for the past few hours and I was pretty sure I'd never know. Henry Spencer is infamous for having a network of contacts that stretches far beyond the department's influence. A lot of people out there owe him favors. My guess is he wouldn't hesitate to call in every last one of them if it meant finding Shawn.

"What we have is a lead, Spencer," Carlton spoke up. "It's more than nothing but quite possibly less than something."

Without another word my partner waved Henry and I into the observation room. Julia McDermott had been deposited into the adjacent interrogation room only a couple of minutes earlier. I was surprised to see that Lassiter was letting Henry into the room without argument, but I guess he's learned from past experience that there's really no point.

Henry's face blanched in shock upon seeing the slight, meek-looking teenaged girl on the other side of the glass.

"You've got to be kidding me," he groaned, "you don't honestly believe that this poor girl his anything to do with this, do you? Look at the kid, she's practically shaking!"

I couldn't help but agree with Henry, Julia did look terrified. But I also knew how desperate the situation was, and there was just too much at stake to give the girl the benefit of the doubt just then.

"The Executioner called her out specifically, Henry," I spoke for the first time, "She's involved in this somehow. Maybe she's an accomplice, maybe she's a victim, either way we're going to find out."

Henry nodded, clearly respecting my point.

"By all means, carry on, Detectives."

Lassiter and I had already decided that I should be the one to talk to Julia, so with one last reassuring nod from my partner I stepped out into the hallway.

And walked straight into Gus.

Now you want to talk about someone who was really a mess. I hadn't seen him since he had dropped me off at the station, so I could only assume he had been out with Henry. That's probably the only reason Henry had made it back in one piece, actually. When I looked up at Gus it felt like another little bit of my heart broke. I would have expected to see fear or anger or determination on his face but I didn't see any of those things. All I saw was a deep weariness and all-consuming sadness. Gus managed to give me a weak half-smile, but in his eyes I saw how he really felt. It was how I felt, or at least how I would've feel if I had stopped long enough to really think about it.

I feel like that sounds awful—like Gus and I had given up on Shawn or something. Trust me, that is so, so far from the truth. It's just that we both felt the crushing grief that accompanied the knowledge that Shawn had suffered so much already. It was an awful feeling, and I could tell that Gus was feeling its full force.

On instinct I pulled Gus into a tight hug. How could I not? I'm really not sure whose benefit it was for, I just knew that it needed to happen. I clung to Gus like a lifeline for a full five seconds before I finally let him go.

I straightened my jacket and decided that that would be the last moment of weakness I allowed myself until Shawn was found.

With nothing more exchanged than a smile, Gus and I parted ways. Gus went into the observation room, and I went into the interrogation room to face Julia McDermott.

OooOooO

_**SHAWN**_

Okay, I have no idea how to tell when it's the opportune moment to drop this bombshell but I'm sort of tired of waiting. Gosh, Jules can talk. No worries, after this I'll explain the concept of being 'concise' to her.

I know you guys are on the edge of your seats, so I'll just jump right into the action.

"I know who you are." I said through choked coughs.

In retrospect, that probably wasn't the most intelligent way to start this conversation. I could've like just shouted the guy's name out, or something, hoping that the camera was on and someone would hear me. At least I could've said something really witty and clever and, you know, _me_. Ah well. C'est la vie. I'm not sure what that means, but I feel like it applies.

Predictably Mr. E immediately reached over and switched off the video camera, betraying his feeling of nervousness. I'm not sure that I had really registered that it had been on, but I definitely registered it being turned off. And then I felt really stupid.

"Oh, really, Shawnee? You do, do you?" Mr. E laughed his dark but admittedly badass laugh. "Am I to understand that that famous psychic ability is finally making an appearance?"

"You b-bet it is." I really hated the fact that I didn't have the energy to be witty, but each and every word I spoke seemed to drain me. "You see, it was fuzzy before but all this hyp-hyperventilation has really cleared my-my senses. Gavin Sloane was a copycat, but he wasn't just some r-random wannabe, was h-he? Oh-oh no. It much deeper than that. Blood deep. He's your son. You're Charles Sloane."

**OooOooO**

**Major props to ****J'amie lire**** and ****dr472**** for figuring out who Mr. E is! I'm really seriously impressed! Also shout out to ****BlackPoppy.0**** for the most creative idea (it's Gavin DeGraw in an abandoned prison with a twitter account), and ****ZCaylor****, who suggested Despereaux, which I feel like is a really good idea. **

**For the record, I've had this chappie done for like two weeks but I've had no means of posting it (on vacation with no internet :/) I'm sorry! It's been killing me!**

**I SWEAR on my honor as a Psych-o, a Whovian, a Sherlockian, a Browncoat, a Trekkie, and all of the millions of other things I am that I'll get at least one more chapter out before July 26****th****. Believe me, if you can't trust that, you can trust nothing. **

**Y'all have been ridiculously amazing with the reviews. I seriously don't deserve it, but I really appreciate it! I know that this chapter wasn't much, but I just wanted to bring back Gus and Henry. I'm considering writing a companion piece to this that would be a similar story but from Gus and Henry POV to fill in the blanks with them. It would be much shorter, but I feel like there's a lot to be explored there. Thoughts?**


	26. Bombshells

_**JULIET**_

Julia's eyes were fixed on me from the second I walked in the room.

As I sat down in the metal chair opposite her, it occurred to me that I had never really gotten a good look at the girl. I mentally berated myself at the thought. In all fairness it had been dark outside when I had first encountered Julia, and then there were more important things to worry about when we got back to the station, but still, as an investigator I really had no excuse for my negligence. Who knows, maybe I would have noticed that something was off and all of this could have been ended a whole lot sooner? I guess, as that old saying goes, 'hindsight is 20/20'.

Anyways, I took a moment to look Julia over and try and get a read on her once I sat down. You'd be surprised at how just being in the interrogation room tends to bring out people's true nature. I've been in there with suspects who just seethe with innocence or guilt. They let off this sort of vibe that's practically palpable. There's sweating or fidgeting or nervous ticks—sometimes even crying. But Julia McDermott? Nothing. She just sat there calmly, leaning forward with her elbows on the table, peering at me through her dull blonde hair that hung loosely in her face. She had steely grey eyes that betrayed no emotion.

I don't know why, but it was very unsettling.

The girl before me was a far cry from the hysterical wreck that Lassiter and I had caught outside of the Sloane's house. She was cool and collected-almost clinical. I had a feeling that the motivation behind this change was vitally important.

"Julia, I'm Detective Juliet O'Hara. We met just last night. Do you know why you're here?" I asked her nicely. I always try to be sweet at first in case I decide to bring Carlton in for a little good cop/bad cop.

Julia cocked her head to the side a bit and studied me. She had a strange look on her face, as though I'd just asked her a question in German.

"Well of course I know why I'm here," She said like it was the most obvious thing in the world, "This is all part of the plan."

There are very few things that Julia McDermott could possibly have said in that moment that would have surprised me more. I was lost for words, not that that was a problem because she just kept talking.

"You're a bit behind schedule, though. You've only got three hours and twenty-three minutes left." She didn't even check her watch.

How had Lassiter and I missed that this kid was so obviously messed up?

"What's the matter, Detective," Julia taunted after hardly a second, "cat got your tongue?"

Gosh this girl was seriously starting to creep me out. She was in deeper than any of us had even imagined, and she was freely admitting to it without even being questioned. What was she playing at? And I already knew that it would be a while before I would be able to let it go that Carlton and I had had her in the station hours earlier—before The Executioner had even hijacked our system—and we hadn't even questioned her.

But there had just been so much going on. There were so many people milling about with the power out and everything, and—

And _that's _why she had been outside of the Sloane's the night before. The realization hit me out of nowhere and it seemed so simple and obvious that I wanted to kick myself for not figuring it out earlier.

"You stole the station's security tapes, didn't you? And you got The Executioner into our video system." I said after a moment and Julia smiled triumphantly. It didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Don't be too harsh on Officer McNabs. I told him I had to use the restroom. In the darkness and with all the people milling about he had no way of knowing where I really went. Plus, you and Detective Lassiter are the ones who walked me through the door."

"Alright, Julia," I pushed forward through gritted teeth, all traces of sweetness gone, "You're clearly here for a reason, so what is it? Why are you helping The Executioner?"

"I'm here because it's part of the plan," She repeated, exasperated, "And I help The Executioner because I would do anything for him. Just as he would do anything for anyone of us."

I felt a chill go down my spine.

"Us? What do you mean 'us'?"

I saw Julia's eyes widen ever so slightly before she caught herself and reverted back to her poker face. She'd clearly gone off script for a moment there. The girl crossed her arms and leaned back, refusing to comment.

"Okay, then. You keep saying that this is all part of the plan. Care to elaborate on that? Better yet, how about you just cut to the chase and tell us where The Executioner and his hostage are? You're in trouble, Julia. Big trouble. But if you help us we can help you."

"Thanks for the offer, Detective, but I don't need your help. I've got The Executioner, and at the end of the day he's the one who will come out on top. As for the plan, I'm just here to give you your next clue."

Oh gosh, another clue. Just when it seemed like we were close to finding Shawn this kid had to send us off on another wild goose chase.

I sighed heavily. "Okay what's the clue?"

"Footloose."

I stared at Julia blankly. "That's it."

She smiled at me. "Yep."

Footloose? How was that supposed to help us find Shawn? Frustrated and sensing that I'd get no more from Julia, I pushed away from the table and stood up.

"Another officer will be in here shortly to escort you to a temporary holding cell."

I was reaching for the door handle when Julia's voice stopped me.

"Oh, Detective?" I looked back at her, "Tick tock."

OooOooO

Gus, Henry, and Lassiter were all waiting for me in the hall. We all stood for a moment, stunned to silence at what had just happened.

"Well," Gus said after a second, "That was…yeah…"

"That kid is off the grid crazy," Henry agreed.

"How did we not see it before?" I burst out. "We had her right here in front of us and we let her walk out of here—worse we let her walk _around_ here, steal surveillance footage, hack into our video system, and _then _walk out of here."

Lassiter just shook his head. He looked angry with himself so I didn't push the matter further.

"Footloose," Gus spoke up again, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Before any of us could respond, Buzz came running down the steps from the main body of the station.

"We just lost the feed of Shawn," He told us.

"What?" Henry almost shouted, alarmed.

"Shawn was just laying there and said 'I know who you are' and then the camera was shut off." Buzz elaborated.

"Crap," Lassiter mumbled under his breath, "Spencer's big mouth is going to get him killed before that bomb has the chance. We've got to figure out this clue ASAP."

"No." I spoke up, surprising myself.

Four sets of eyes turned to stare at me.

"What?" Gus asked, clearly thinking I was crazy.

"No, we're not going to worry about this clue. Our time is running out. We're not playing his game anymore. I think it's about time that we change the rules."

**OooOooO**

**See! I did it! And thus it is proven that nothing is more sacred than the fandom oath. **

**PLEASE READ THIS!:** **So, I'm starting to wrap this story up, and I'm not quite sure how I'm going to do it yet. By that I mean that I don't know how Shulesy/cheesy/fluffy I'm going to make it. I could really, really, REALLY use y'all's feedback. What kind of ending do y'all want? Really fluffy or a bit more downplayed? I have a pretty solid track record of honoring my readers' requests, so I'll take what you guys say seriously. Thanks so much!**

**Okay, you don't have to keep reading if you don't want to!**

**Also, I know that I'm one of the worst like, ever about review replying, but I'm making it a personal goal to respond to every review I get this chapter! So feel free to ask questions! **

**Keep being awesome! Y'all are seriously the best and I couldn't do any of this without your support! Please keep the reviews coming because they mean a lot **


	27. Going Off Book

"Change the rules? Dear lord, O'Hara. You're starting to sound like Spencer," Carlton said. Catching a sidelong glance from Henry he clarified, "Younger Spencer."

"Maybe that's a good thing," I pressed on, "Just think about it: Clearly the Executioner did not want Shawn involved in this case. He knew he'd catch him, which is why he took him out of the picture. Maybe it's time we think a little more like Shawn and go off script—just like he did with Yin."

Carlton stared at me in disbelief. Evidently he didn't see Shawn as the ideal role model.

"Look, this theory is just fine and dandy. But are you sure that going rogue isn't going to get my son blown up?" Henry spoke up pointedly.

I shifted my weight uncomfortably at his harsh wording. If I thought about my actions like that—with that direct a line of cause and effect—I wouldn't be able to get anything done.

"I'm sure that the Executioner doesn't want Shawn to make it out of this alive," I asserted, "He'll keep us running in circles until five seconds after that timer hits zero, and then he'll give us the final clue. But as long as we follow his path he'll have eyes on us."

"And then there's the fact that Shawn may have figured out who the Executioner is," Gus interjected. "If he did…who knows what will happen. The game could have changed already."

We all took a moment to soak this in. It was a cold, unsettling silence.

"So what's your course of action, Detective?" Henry asked.

"She said 'us'. Julia McDermott, I mean. She said: 'he'd do anything for any one of _us_'."

"She was probably talking about all the voices in her head. Come on O'Hara, tell me you've got more than that to work off of." My partner griped.

My clenched fist was the only outward sign of my irritation at Lassiter's remark. Shawn didn't have time for me to snap back and start an argument.

"It was more than just the words. She made this face when I asked her about it. It was like she had come on the verge of spilling some massive secret. We need to figure out who 'us' is. I say we go back to the beginning and talk to Gavin. Maybe his mom. The Executioner has had every second of this detailed out and we've been going right along with it. If we go off book maybe we can catch him and a few of his pawns off guard."

"But you're implying that Gavin Sloane is pawn in all this." Henry piped up, his brow furrowed in concentration, "Didn't the Executioner shoot the kid?"

Gus and Lassiter muttered overlapping words of agreement. I could see growing doubt in their eyes concerning my plan of action—not that I could blame them. It was hard to believe that a man would shoot one of his accomplices and then dump him in front of a police station. There was no question that the Executioner was sadistic, but he was also smart. That would be far from smart. In most circles, oaths of secrecy are pretty much invalidated the second bullets hit flesh. The Executioner would have no way of knowing that Gavin wouldn't just tell us everything the second we found him on our driveway with a bow on his head.

"I won't pretend that it makes perfect sense," I admitted, "but let's just say that I have a gut feeling."

Henry Spencer was nodding. After a pause he spoke up, "Okay, Juliet. I can respect that. But I'm still going to take Gus and follow this Footloose clue."

I nodded back in complete understanding. It would make me feel better to have that lead covered, just in case.

Lassiter then jumped in, clearly wanting to regain some semblance of authority. "Right. And O'Hara, go tell McNab to bring in Gavin Sloane."

OooOooO

As unsettling a suspect Julia McDermott was to interrogate, Gavin Sloane had to be about a hundred times worse. Both Carlton and I were in the room this time, but Gavin just stared at me as though my partner wasn't even there. His hollow, brown eyes bore into me and I didn't know whether to feel challenged, threatened, or violated. Or all three.

"Why am I here, Detective?" He asked me.

Lassiter cleared his throat. Gavin's exaggerated focus on me seemed to make him feel uncomfortable, too. "We need to ask you some questions concerning—"

"No." Gavin cut Lassiter off in a loud, powerful voice. His eyes did not waver from mine. "That's not what I mean. Why am I here? This isn't part of the game."

I think my gasp was actually audible at that. I was dumbfounded. Both of us were. It had seemed a long shot for Gavin to be involved at all, and yet there he was, practically admitting to being an accomplice to the Executioner without even being asked. This case was becoming more and more convoluted by the second.

After it became apparent that Lassiter and I were having trouble finding our voices, Gavin continued, "You're down to what, like two hours and forty-five minutes now? Something like that?"

Two hours and fifty-one minutes, actually. "How do you know that? Lassiter, how can he know that?" I asked in a small, frightened voice.

Gavin Sloane had been shipped off to a prison to await trial the second he had been released from the hospital. It made no sense for him to have access to that sort of information.

"Oh, a little birdie told me." Gavin smiled, enjoying watching us squirm. He then adopted a look of contemplation, "Actually you probably don't even have that long, do you? Collapsed lung, huh? Looks like Shawnie might not be making it to Officer McNab's housewarming party this weekend."

I honestly hope that the fear that I was feeling was at least a little disguised. Buzz _did _have a housewarming party coming up that Saturday. Gavin shouldn't know that. He shouldn't know about the collapsed lung, either.

"Lassiter, he _can't _know that." I muttered to my dumbstruck partner stupidly.

"Oh and Shawnie was so looking forward to it, too. He bought Little Boy Cat a new bed—it's shaped like a pineapple." He wouldn't stop staring at me.

"Enough!" Lassiter suddenly exploded, jumping out of his chair and causing it to skid backwards a good three feet. Gavin's eyes flicked over to my partner in reflex. "We will not do this with you. You've said some extremely incriminating things in the past minute and you had better explain yourself. I want to know how you got your information while you were inside the hospital and inside prison. Clearly you've been stalking Spencer for a long time, but why? How come he didn't notice you?"

Gavin just stared at Lassiter for about five seconds and then started laughing hysterically. He laughed darkly and creepily and I swear I could _feel _the sound creeping up my skin. After a while the laughter tapered off and he returned his hard gaze to meet mine.

"But Detective, it's so very, very simple. You're all just so, so ignorant. So _stupid_," He spat, "The answer is, of course, that we are everywhere. We see everything, we hear everything, we _know _everything. This goes so far beyond your stupid psychic. No one and no where is safe."

I felt the now-familiar sensation of a chill running down my spine as my partner asked the question I was dying to know the answer to.

"We? Who's 'we'?"

Gavin smiled, glanced at Lassiter, and then stared back at me. "The Tribunal."

**OooOooO**

**Heeyyy… Okay, please don't hate me. I've just recently finished up my first semester of freshman year of college, and I got to writing this as soon as I got home. I'm SO SORRY that y'all had to wait so long! I feel awful, but I didn't have time to breathe these past few months—not even over 'breaks'. I love school but my goodness it's hard. And I have literally no free time. Like Michael Jackson in the Pepsi commercial literally.**

**Anyways, I hope y'all liked this chapter! Sorry it's not much, I wanted to add another interrogation to it, but I really need sleep and I wanted to get this out as a sort of Christmas present to my gorgeous, brilliant readers! I make absolutely no promises, but I really want to finish this before I go back to school. But y'all know me by now, so don't get your hopes up too high! At least another chapter!**

**I will promise this, though: ****No matter what, I WILL finish this story. I mean, obviously y'all can imagine certain circumstances that would prevent that, but I really don't anticipate any of them playing out. So even if it's twelve years and I haven't updated (that won't happen, I'm not that bad I promise) keep hope!**

**OKAY! Sorry for the super long A/N! And Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays! PLEASE REVIEW! It's Christmas for me, too and I'd really appreciate it! :D**


	28. A Family Matter

_"But Detective, it's so very, very simple. You're all just so, so ignorant. So __stupid__," He spat, "The answer is, of course, that we are everywhere. We see everything, we hear everything, we __know __everything. This goes so far beyond your stupid psychic. No one and no where is safe."_

_"We? Who's 'we'?"_

_Gavin smiled, glanced at Lassiter, and then stared back at me. "The Tribunal."_

**JULIET**

"The Tribunal," I repeated dumbly, keeping my voice as steady as possible, "care to elaborate on that, Gavin?"

After a few seconds of silence Carlton, already standing from his outburst earlier, walked swiftly to the door, stuck his head outside and said something to an officer in the hall before returning to his chair. I shot him a questioning glance but he just shook his head.

"Okay, Gavin. I'm no Sherlock Holmes, but I've been known to make a deduction or two. So let's just think about this for a second." I found myself marveling at my partner's ability to sound so calm and confident. "You and your little girlfriend are clearly working for this Executioner. I don't know exactly why, but considering the name The Tribunal and the fact that neither you nor Julia seem to have things bolted down in the right places up there, I'm starting to think along the lines of a cult."

I looked over at Lassiter at that. I could tell that he felt my eyes on him, but he was locked on Gavin so he ignored me. We both knew what having a cult on our hands would mean—actually, better stated, neither of us knew what having a cult on our hands would mean. We were in uncharted territory, and that was not a good feeling. All we knew was that, what had started out as an already difficult case concerning a raving and dangerous serial killer was rapidly turning into a hunt for potentially several unstable accomplices willing to kill.

"With that in mind," Carlton continued, "I'm also going to venture a guess and say that there are more of you." Gavin stared forward impassively, clearly unwilling to betray any more information. "How many more of you are there, Gavin?"

Lassiter waited a moment. He stood up calmly, took off his jacket, and began to pace around the table. As soon as he stepped behind Gavin he looked at me intently and crossed his arms one way, then uncrossed them and re-crossed them the other way—it was a subtle gesture we had devised and it meant that I needed to focus on body language and facial reactions. He would take charge of the questioning—something I'd usually resent but was perfectly fine with in this scenario. The two of us would occasionally divide jobs like this, but usually the observer would stay behind the glass. The gesture in the middle of interrogation basically told me that Carlton had a line of questioning planned out and I should stay out of the way.

"Okay, Gavin, maybe you can explain this to me. So far this pretty much all sounds crazy, but believable. That is, everything but one little detail. There's something that I just can't reconcile, no matter how much I think about it. Do you know what that is, Gavin?" The kid was staring at his hands now, silent. Lassiter came up behind him and put his hands on his shoulders. He leaned forwards and spoke directly into Gavin's ear, "Why did The Executioner shoot you?"

Lassiter stayed in his position for a moment before releasing Gavin's shoulders and circling back to his seat. The room was silent for probably thirty seconds. The boy shifted in his chair uncomfortably. His mouth opened and then closed again quickly.

"I mean, from a superficial view it seems pretty well planned out, doesn't it? You hijack The Executioner's identity, kill a few people, post online and get our attention. Your involvement leads us to stakeout your house, which leads us to Julia. Julia steals the security tapes of the power being cut at the station and hacks her way into our video feed—which, by the way, she can do, because the power is out. It's a brilliant plan. Really, it is. But I just don't see why little Gavin Sloane had to get shot. Do you, O'Hara?"

"Seems completely unnecessary to me, Lassiter." I responded.

"You know what I think, Gavin?" Lassiter asked, leaning towards the boy.

"What?" Gavin croaked out, sounding far less confident than he had moments before.

"I think that you deviated from the plan. You weren't supposed to kill those people, and in doing so you set things in motion far before you were supposed to. The Executioner shot you because of that—because he was angry with you."

"And why exactly would I do that?" Gavin brought a challenging gaze to meet Carlton's.

"'He's my hero, I want to be just like him'." Gavin's eyes widened slightly. "That's what you said, wasn't it? In the hospital."

"I didn't…I don't—" Gavin stuttered, clearly caught off guard.

"Tell me, Gavin, why are you protecting him? You idolize him. You honor him. Then he tries to kill you?" Lassiter said, his voice rising in volume.

"He wouldn't have killed me!" Gavin asserted, his voice rising to meet Lassiter's

"Hate to break it to you, kid, but he would have. He shot you! Even if he wasn't trying to kill you there was room for error there. He doesn't care about you."

"Yes he does!" Gavin was practically screaming. His body was tense, ready to pounce, and his eyes were filled with denial.

"Rule one of life, people don't shoot people who they care about. Keep that in mind and you'll go far." On the other hand, Lassiter had relaxed and calmed his voice, guessing (correctly, apparently) that a calm demeanor would be more effective in provoking Gavin.

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about!"

"Oh, I think I do, actually," Carlton spoke serenely, "It's pretty evident that The Executioner is just a self-serving jackass who doesn't mind if he hurts—kills, even—the people who care about him."

"Don't you say that about him! He's a great man. And he cares about me."

"He almost killed you!" Lassiter shouted, incredulously.

"He wouldn't have killed me!" Gavin shouted back, "He wouldn't have killed his own—"

Gavin's mouth clamped shut immediately and panic filled his eyes. I looked at my partner in awe. Times like this reminded me why he was Head Detective.

"Let's go, O'Hara. We're done here."

**OooOooO**

**Well I really hope that you don't think this chapter is too boring. It's totally not how I envisioned it, but it's what came out when I started typing so I kind of rolled with it.**

**At this point I'm thinking two or three more chapters, but I say that kind of thing a lot, so we'll see. Next chapter will have Shawn in it! [I think] **

**I'm not going to lie, the lack of response to the last chapter was pretty disheartening. I do suppose I deserve it, though, for taking so long to update, so I really shouldn't complain. I will honestly say that reviews inspire me to write, so feedback is greatly appreciated!**

**So basically, PLEASE REVIEW! Tell me what you want to see! And thanks x10000000 to everyone who has been reviewing. Y'all make me happy :D**


	29. In Darkness

_**SHAWN**_

Okay, so no offense to Jules, but I'm approximately 100% sure that you guys are sick of hearing her talk right now. True, her voice has the consistency of freshly harvested honey from the hives of Hungarian honeybees, but it's not like you're actually _hearing _her. Or seeing her for that matter. Unless you're stalking us… And if you are, let me tell you that will not end well for you. Jules can beat you up with her pinky finger. Or if you're really big she can just shoot you right in your face!

I digress.

Basically what I'm saying is that Jules has gotten to talk for too long so now it's my turn. My side of the story is way cooler anyway. Well, except for that Tribunal thing. That's pretty legit.

When we last left off from our epic and dangerous tale I had just bravely revealed to Mr. E that I knew his true identity:

"I know who you are." I told him through choked coughs.

Why were said coughs 'choked'? Well, for our more forgetful (read: human) readers, let me remind you what all I'd gone through in the past eleven or so hours: I'd been kidnapped and brutally pistol-whipped, the entirety of my torso was used for batting practice, and then my face was used for boxing practice, causing several cracked ribs and a moderate to moderately severe concussion, respectively. Oh, and I was angstier (Angstyer? More angsty? Filled with more angst?) than a post-breakup T-Swift concert because I was pretty much convinced that I had murdered my own girlfriend/almost-girlfriend/really-good-friend-who-happens-to-be-a-girl/let's-not-get-into-this-now. Said angst lead to a murder/suicide attempt that started with me dislocating my left wrist and ended with me puncturing a lung.

So yes, my coughs were 'choked'. I will forever and always be proud that I wasn't sitting in the corner crying like Gus at the end of _7 Pounds. _

Anyhow, after my declaration Mr. E immediately reached over and switched off the video camera before responding: "Oh, really, Shawnee? You do, do you? Am I to understand that that famous psychic ability is finally making an appearance?"

"You b-bet it is." I shot back, "You see, it was fuzzy before but all this hyp-hyperventilation has really cleared my-my senses. Gavin Sloane was a copycat, but he wasn't just some r-random wannabe, was h-he? Oh-oh no. It much deeper than that. Blood deep. He's your son. You're Charles Sloane."

Charles was quiet for a moment—

…

Nope. No, no, definitely not. Nuh uh. I'm sorry, but that does not work for me. I'm just going to keep calling him Mr. E. But guys, listen to this and listen close because it's REALLY IMPORTANT: Don't forget that Charles Sloane is Mr. E. Because if I'm calling him Mr. E all the time and Jules is calling him The Executioner (let's be real, she's is bound to hijack the story soon and ramble for like thirty years and she had no clue who the hell the guy was at this point) you may forget his true identity. So I am saying now, The Executioner=Mr. E=Charles Sloane.

Okay? Great. Moving on.

Mr. E was quiet for a moment. His eyes bore into me. After what felt like a decade he spoke, his voice low and dangerous:

"That was a mistake, Shawn. That was the last mistake you'll ever make."

And with that Mr. E strode out of the room, flicking off the lights and slamming the door, leaving me in the darkness.

_**JULIET**_

I'm really, really sorry about Shawn. He's really excited about this 'dramatic effect' thing…

Anyways, I'm just going to pick up about where I left off.

I came out of the interrogation room and was immediately overwhelmed by a flurry of activity.

Lassiter turned to me and began to speak, his words overlapping with McNab's, who had just rushed up to us urgently. Before I could even tell the two of them to shut up because I couldn't understand both of them talking at the same time, my phone started ringing. I saw it was Gus and answered.

"O'Hara," I answered curtly. Any other circumstance and Gus would probably be a little hurt by my formality, but at the time, neither of us had the time or energy to care.

"We found the next clue," Gus's serious voice came through the line, skipping over friendly greetings as well.

"What?" I had momentarily forgotten Gus and Henry's decision to go ahead and follow the clues we were given.

"_Footloose_, remember?"

"Oh gosh, of course. Sorry. That was really fast!" I replied, impressed at how quickly the men had solved the vague clue.

I heard an impatient noise and looked up to find my partner staring at me in annoyance. McNab at least had the manners to give me a little space.

_Gus. _I mouthed to Carlton and he shrugged in grudging acceptance.

"Yeah, well, it wasn't until after we left the station that I remembered something Shawn told me once," Gus was saying. "A few years back at our thirteenth high school reunion Shawn was trying to impress Abigail. It's kind of a long story, but part of his brilliant, twenty-seven step plan involved going to the roof of the school and dancing Footloose-style."

I waited quietly for Gus to continue, but Gus interpreted my silence as something else entirely.

"Juliet…this was before, you know…if Shawn had even thought that the two of you would—" He spoke low and confidentially.

"Oh my God, Gus. Stop. There isn't—We're not…So what did you find on the roof?" I spluttered, acutely aware of my partner standing two feet away, as well as the very distinct possibility that Henry Spencer was approximately the same distance away from Gus. I did not want to be having a conversation about the nature of Shawn and my relationship. Definitely not with my partner, the guy in question's best friend, and the guy in question's father.

I risked a glance up at Carlton, instantly regretting it when I saw his raised eyebrows and barely contained smile. Apparently me babbling like a seventh grade girl amuses him.

"Oh, well, we found an envelope. But you know what I was thinking? There's no way that whoever these people are were on that roof with Shawn and Abigail. Absolutely no way. And I really don't think that Abigail is mixed up in all of this. I'm not convinced someone was watching the two of you in the skating rink, either. Shawn notices stuff like that. He'd _sense _it." 

"What's your point, Gus?" Two hours and thirty-two minutes left. He needed to cut to the chase.

"Both of those incidents Shawn told me about later. In great detail because, you know, Shawn. So maybe this guy isn't as…_panoptic_ as we think he is. Maybe he bugged the office and followed Shawn when he could, and is now stretching that information to make himself seem like more than he is?"

"That's good thinking, Gus. We'll send some people over to the Psych office to sweep it for bugs," I said emphatically, making eye contact with Buzz to indicate that he should go ensure that these instructions were carried out, "Shawn's apartment and yours, as well. Henry's house, too, if there's time. Just to be safe. Gus." I added at the last second semi-awkwardly for Buzz's sake, clarifying whose apartment I was referring to.

McNab nodded and dashed off to set the wheels in motion.

"Oh! The envelope!" Gus exclaimed. I heard the rustling of paper. "Neither Henry nor I can make sense of this clue, but maybe it'll mean something to you: _He was there for you, it's time for you to be there for him. If you fail, it will be a mistake you can't undo. Hurry if you ever want to experience very close talking again._" Gus finished his recitation with an audible sigh, "I don't know. This man's a damn awful poet. Any idea what it means?"

_Of course _I knew what it meant. So many things about that day made it one I'd never forget. My first big screw up as a detective—I let I man charged with murder escape (even if he _was _innocent in the end). Then Shawn swooped in like…well, like Shawn. There's really no other way to explain it. He found the perp, solved the case, and then comforted me afterwards with some 'very close talking'. And no, that's not a euphemism. It is 100% what it sounds like.

My feet were already moving towards my desk before Gus had finished talking. Vaguely I realized the implications of Gus's ignorance: Shawn hadn't told him about what had happened that night. And if Shawn hadn't told Gus, Shawn hadn't told anyone. Which meant…

"Lassiter," I called over my shoulder, covering the transmitter of my phone with my hand, "tell McNab to have my apartment swept as well."

What? I talk to my mom…

"I'm having Diane Sloane—Gavin's mother brought in." Lassiter shot back quickly, addressing what I could only assume to be the issue he had wanted to bring up with me when we had left the interrogation room.

I nodded my agreement and understanding before turning my attention back to Gus.

"Yeah, I know what it means. That little bitch left a clue here when she stole the security tapes."

"Who?" Gus was apparently having trouble following my angry, half-explanations.

"Julia McDermott," I answered, "It's a long story," (It's not, really.) "but I'm sure the clue has to be taped under my desk or something. And the only way that I can think that that could have happened is if Gavin Sloane's psycho girlfriend put it there when we brought her in."

"Well if she can steal tapes from the security room, leaving a clue at your desk shouldn't have been a problem." Gus commented mildly.

"Okay, I'm going to look. I'll let you know what I find." 

"Alright, we're headed back now but call us if we need to head back out to find something else."

I disconnected my phone as I reached my desk and just stared at my small space for a minute. I think I would have given anything in the world to go back to that day—the day that had started off as the worst day of my life and ended as one of the most confusing. But compared to today it was…perfect.

I put one hand on the bottom side of my desk and began feeling around for anything that might be hidden there. I hadn't been doing this for five seconds when Buzz came up to me.

"Oh, McNab! Did Lassiter tell you to have my apartment swept as well?" I asked him.

The man nodded. "Yes, Detective O'Hara. I've got Gallaway on it. But you should know The Executioner started tweeting again."

As if to prove that he wasn't lying, McNab reached over to my computer and opened up Twitter.

_2:25:49… #ticktock_

**OooOooO**

**Can I just start by saying that y'all are the actual best? Really. Y'all have been so supportive and that really means more than you can possibly know to me. I'm in my first year in college (Natural Sciences. Yikes.) so I've had less than no time to write and you've all been so nice about that. For some reason I was compelled to write this right now, the week before finals. Thus it is not even sort of proof read. And it is like 3 in the morning. I'm a little concerned because I typed the word "understandment" earlier (by the way: not a word). IF YOU TELL MY MOTHER ABOUT THIS I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU.**

**Anyways, my summer starts in a couple weeks, so hopefully I'll be updating more. Correction. I WILL be updating more. Hold me to that, guys. Y'all deserve it. **

**I feel like Shawn's narration is borderline crack!fic. I don't even know what's going on there. I don't really know what the deal is with the narration in general. This is also very exposition-y, but that's kind of on purpose because this story is so long and I wait so long to update. I'd appreciate feedback on how y'all are feeling about that (narration in general).**

**LAST THING I PROMISE AND IT'S KIND OF IMPORTANT: How would y'all feel about a sequel? I don't know when I'd write it, but it would have to do with The Tribunal. I'm trying to decide whether I'm going to wrap that storyline up or keep it open.**

**Thanks so much for still reading! Y'all are the greatest people in the world!**


	30. Progress

_**JULIET**_

_2:25:49… #ticktock_

I could feel McNab's eyes boring into me as I read over The Executioner's tweets. I didn't have to see his face to know that a look of concern was plastered there.

The Executioner posted another message as I was staring at the screen:

_Oh dear, Shawnee isn't breathing too well…_

My fists knotted in my jacket reflexively and my jaw clenched, but I allowed no other external sign of my internal distress. I had to remind myself that The Executioner was playing a game. A sick, twisted, sadistic game. And not just with Shawn—maybe not even primarily with Shawn. This guy was trying to get into my head and I couldn't let that happen.

"McNab, from here on out I want you watching this feed. Nonstop—I mean it. Detective Lassiter and I are to be notified the instant a new tweet is posted. I don't care if I'm out of the station or interrogating a suspect—I don't care if I'm in the freaking restroom. You let me know."

"Yes, Detective." Buzz responded, his cheeks reddening slightly from my remark.

The man walked away, sitting down at his desk and positioning himself so that he was staring at the computer screen intently. I found myself smiling slightly in spite of myself.

I began to reach my hand under my desk in search of The Executioner's next clue but found my police instincts kicking in. For all I knew the man could have planted a bomb there. It really wouldn't have surprised me at that point. At the very least, I recognized the potential for DNA evidence. Instead of blindly reaching, I dropped to the ground, rolling onto my back to try and scope out the clue.

"Hey McNab! Could you grab me a pair of gloves?" I called as I began scanning the bottom of my desk, squinting in the darkness.

"Oh…okay. But Detective, you said—" Buzz's conflicted voice floated towards me.

"It's fine, Buzz, you can step away from Twitter for two seconds."

"Oh gosh, Detective. I don't know if I can get them and get to you and get back in two—"

"Not literally, McNab. Not literally." I sighed, willing myself to have patience with the young man.

"Oh, okay." Buzz said again.

In the seven seconds it took for McNab to pull a pair of gloves from his desk (prepared as a boy scout, that one), run to my desk, drop them by my legs, and sprint back to his computer, I estimate that he knocked over three desk chairs and stubbed toes on both feet. Judging by his heavy sigh, he didn't miss anything in that window of time.

I slipped the gloves onto my hands and began gingerly feeling around the shadowy bottom of my desk.

I found it duct-taped to a back corner of the desk. This discovery had me cursing under my breath as I realized that Julia McDermott must have crawled underneath my desk and no one noticed. I gently peeled the tape away from the mysterious object and scooted myself into the light.

I almost dropped it when I saw what it was.

It was Shawn's phone. Broken, of course, and in his signature green Psych phone case. The case was splattered with blood.

Vaguely I realized that The Executioner must have given Julia the phone just after he took Shawn and just before we picked her up outside of the Sloanes' house. I grimaced as it occurred to me that the blood pattern on the phone was probably a result of Shawn being whacked over the head with it—likely after he was already unconscious (The Executioner would have had a hard time stealing Shawn's phone whilst simultaneously sneaking up on him).

The phone wasn't even the clue, though. Just another attempt for The Executioner to get to me, I'm sure. There was a photo taped to the cracked screen. A photo of a boat—a somewhat familiar boat, but I couldn't place it.

"Damn it," I muttered under my breath. The frustration of that sadistic scavenger hunt was causing a painful pressure to build in my head.

I stood up, banging my head in the process (causing an unladylike string of expletives to rush from my mouth, I might add), and snatched my own phone from my desk. I snapped a quick photo of the photo before sweeping my eyes across the station, searching for an officer to take the phone for DNA processing.

My movements must have caught McNab's eye. I looked over at him just in time to see him jerk his gaze away from me to glare fiercely at his computer screen. I smiled slightly.

"Officer Martin!" I called the short distance to the veteran's desk. "Take this to forensics, please. I need fingerprints and blood analysis—compare the blood to what ever we have of Shawn Spencer's on file. I need results ASAP. This is top priority, okay?"

I spouted instructions, pulling my right glove off with my left in such a way that the rubber material still covered enough of the phone that Officer Martin could take it from me without compromising evidence.

"Yes ma'am," Martin replied in his slight southern drawl, taking the evidence from me.

I thanked the man as he walked away and then returned my attention to my phone. I sent the photo that I had taken (of the photo) and texted it to Lassiter, Gus and Henry. I honestly don't know why I bothered sending it to Henry—he probably has no idea how to open up a text message.

It took all of ten seconds for Gus to call me.

"Why did you text me a photo of a photo of Henry's boat?" He asked, skipping over niceties and jumping to the heart of the matter.

"I knew that boat seemed familiar!" I exclaimed, "It's the next clue. It was taped to Shawn's phone."

"Okay, well, Henry and I are headed to the docks right now." 

"Good. Just…be careful, Gus," I told the man, my gut churning, "We must be coming to the end of this scavenger hunt now. And I doubt The Executioner wants us to make it there."

I could just make out the sound of Gus swallowing nervously. "I understand." He said, his voice remaining impressively steady.

"You know what, I'm actually going to send a couple of black and whites out to meet you guys. They'll probably beat you there but don't approach that boat until they get there, okay?"

Better safe than sorry.

"Yeah, okay." I could hear the relief in Gus's voice.

A few more words were exchanged before I hung up. Afterwards I headed off to coordinate the dispatch of the two patrol cars. (Yeah, I know that there are people whose job that is, but I wanted the best officers. I couldn't afford any slip-ups).

Lassiter was waiting at my desk when I returned.

"Diane Sloane should be here any minute." He told me.

"Okay, good," I responded. I continued to fill him in on the next clue and Gus and Henry's whereabouts. (His face paled ever so slightly when I described the blood on the phone case).

We shared a lovely, awkward chunk of silence after I had finished. We were in the middle of one of those frustrating lulls where you're really just waiting for something to happen. I swear that's like 75% of my job.

"So," Lassiter began, even more awkward than the silence that we'd been sitting in, "How are you doing?"

I chuckled a little at the ridiculousness of his question but tried to stifle it when I saw the genuine concern in his eyes.

"Oh god," I groaned, sighing and rubbing a hand over my face. I imagine I looked completely pathetic in that moment. Maybe a tad hysterical. "I don't even know how I am. I don't think I _want_ to know how I am. In fact, I'd say I'm doing absolutely everything I can to avoid asking myself that question. I just can't let myself think about it right now."

I looked over at my partner and say him nodding slowly. He reached over and patted my shoulder (also awkwardly). But I could tell that he understood what I meant, and that was all I really needed.

OooOooO

"Okay, Mrs. Sloane," Carlton started off the interview as soon as Diane Sloane was brought in, "Am I correct in assuming that you know that we talked to your son again earlier today?"

Diane nodded shyly.

I glanced at my watch. Two hours and four minutes left.

"When we spoke to Gavin he gave us reason to believe that he has a close personal relationship to The Executioner—the serial killer who has been terrorizing Santa Barbara for over a week now." Lassiter continued. He leaned in towards the woman and spoke low and confidentially. "Mrs. Sloane, if you have any information on who this man might be, any at all, we need you to tell us. Even if it's just a hunch. A man's life is at stake here."

I was impressed at my partner's restraint—the manner in which he was talking gently, coaxing the truth out of the woman. It must have taken a lot for him to do that.

For her part, Diane Sloane was a total wreck. She was practically shaking. Almost crying. Both Lassiter and I knew this woman knew something.

I spoke up gently, knowing that Diane needed a sentimental approach.

"Look, Mrs. Sloane. Please. The man whose life is at stake is a police consultant, and a very good friend of ours," Again I was impressed by Lassiter. This time because of his lack sarcasm at my claim, "He's my best friend, really. And he's going to die if we don't find him in the next two hours and two minutes—he might not even have that long. We don't have long enough to follow any other leads if this doesn't pan out, this is—_you are_—our last chance."

The emotional approach wasn't hard for me. All I had to do was unleash a tiny portion of what I was feeling.

Somewhat unexpectedly, Diane Sloane burst out crying.

Lassiter looked both exasperated and uncomfortable at the display of emotion. Neither of us said anything, though, silently agreeing to give the woman a little time to collect herself.

"I-I didn't know!" Diane exclaimed, "I swear, Detective! I s-swear, I didn't know!"

"What did you not know? Mrs. Sloane, what did you not know?" My partner questioned, exasperation beginning to overrule discomfort.

"It wasn't until af-after Gavin was hos-hospitalized that I even began to-to suspect anything!"

"Please, Mrs. Sloane, take a few breaths. Calm down and tell us what happened," I told her, running out of patience myself. Shawn didn't have time for me to be patient.

Diane breathed deeply a few times, wiped her eyes, and began talking with only a slight waver in her voice.

"My husband, Charles. He was out of town when you came to my house so you haven't met him, at least I don't think. When he got back in town he must have seen what Gavin had done so he…so he…" Diane trailed off, breathing deeply again and swiping a stray chunk of salt-and-pepper hair back behind her ear. "Well, you know. I didn't even suspect Charles until yesterday morning. I saw a story about all of the murders on the news and realized that he had been gone when all of the murders took place. He had disappeared mysteriously for several hours every day this week. It seemed odd at the time but Charles is always working strange hours. I just suspected, though! I swear I didn't know! If I had I would have…"

Diane stopped her tale, overcome by emotion once more. For the latter part of her story her eyes had been locked on mine, begging me to understand.

I exchanged a dubious glance with Lassiter. The woman had very little evidence.

"Mrs. Sloane," Carlton began evenly, "Are you telling us that you believe your husband is The Executioner?"

Diane nodded, covering her mouth with her hand as if in horror.

"Do you have any solid evidence that implicates your husband?"

She shook her head, more tears leaking out of her eyes.

My partner and I both deflated slightly. It didn't seem like we were really going to get anywhere.

"I'm sorry, Detectives. I can't prove anything. But I _know_ it's true—I would never say this if it wasn't."

"That's perfectly alright, Mrs. Sloane." I lied, "Thank you for you cooperation."

Lassiter and I began to stand to go outside and converse when Diane spoke up again, eager to please.

"Wait! I do know how to find him, though!"

**OooOooO**

**Oh snap, guys. Updated within a month AND super long. Seriously, this would normally be two chapters. **

**As you can probably tell, this story is coming to a close (ish). And may I just say it's about dang time. Guys. I've been writing this story for FOUR YEARS. Since 2010. I don't know how to handle that. That's insane… I started this story during Season 5. Shawn and Juliet weren't even a real thing yet. That's crazy.**

**That said, I want to sincerely thank anyone who has stuck with this story. I know that there are a few of y'all who have stuck with this from the beginning and that's just awesome. And thanks to new readers as well! Y'all are all absolutely amazing.**

**Now for a completely unprofessional author request: If there are any questions left over that y'all want answers to, especially if it seems like I've forgotten to address them, PLEASE let me know. I'm pretty sure I've got it handled, but I really don't want to leave loose ends after all this time. Requests and suggestions are more than welcome! And if you have any plot questions or want anything cleared up just let me know!**

**Okay, sorry for the freaky long AN (again). Just thanks again and PLEASE REVIEW! Thanks! :D**


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